


Cipher

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Apple of Eden, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Disturbing Themes, M/M, Mentions of het, Minor Character Death, On Hiatus, Slash, Time Travel, age change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 134,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond isn't what the Templars expected. There is a reason for that. Lucy Stillman learns just how powerful these Pieces of Eden can be, if they fall into the wrong - or right - hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This story assumes at least a passing knowledge of the first three games, otherwise many things won't make sense or feel unexplained.
> 
>  **Please be aware that the Explicit rating is there for a reason, and it's not just for porn.** In fact, if you're here for the porn, that won't happen till chapters 10-12. Please be aware that some of the scenes **may not be everyone's cup of tea** , as I tend to be descriptive in my writings. There will be fluff. There will be death, blood and sex, too. 
> 
> ~~Updates should happen fairly regularly, work schedule permitting.~~ This story is on indefinite hiatus. I kept telling and telling myself ( and others ) that I'd finish it "soon", but the fact is, the franchise is dead to me. I was so _angry_ about how they ended Desmond's story in the games that I basically threw my hands up and walked away fuming, and as this happened in the middle of a case of writer's block...you can guess where this is going. 
> 
> I keep poking at the story, every now and then. I have it plotted out, I know what's going to happen. I don't know, maybe, maybe not I'll finish it. At this point, I'm unwilling to commit to a definite answer.

**CIPHER**

 

_**Prologue** _

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 12 th, 2012**

**\- - -**

 

Stark moonlight was glinting off the chrome-and-glass surface of the Animus, but Lucy had no attention to spare for that impromptu piece of art, man-made and beautified by nature. Clutching the handle of the electrical shock baton, she half stood, half crouched in a corner of the wide open space, eyes riveted on the spectacle before her: Dr. Vidic, on his back and limbs flailing like a cockroach-turned-over, spittle flying from lips pulled back.

 

Desmond, above him, one knee on the good doctor's shoulder, the other pressed in what Lucy imagined must have been a very painful way into Vidic's groin. One arm was raised, the sleeve there already blood-soaked; Desmond, looking like a bird of prey ready to strike but savoring the moment before the kill.

 

Around them, the wide open space in chaos: chairs toppled over, plexiglass partitions smashed, broken and smoking pieces of electrical equipment littering the erstwhile pristine floor. A dead guard, in this corner. Another dead guard, over there.

 

Blood everywhere.

 

Lucy could only guess what state the rest of the facility was in. The lights had gone out long ago. So had all means of communication, and the elevators, the surveillance screens, the alarm klaxons. There was a cell phone in her pocket, but whom was she going to call? The Italian police? The Abstergo outpost, on the other side of the city?

 

“Rot in hell,” Vidic snarled, defiant to the last moment. His hands, like fragile, pale spiders, were not so much pushing Desmond away as clawing into the fabric of the white, hooded sweater. “Upstart. Loser. _Deserter_. Good for nothing, fucking _bartender_.”

 

Above him, unfazed, Desmond shrugged. “I've heard worse.” And brought his upraised arm down sharply, right into his target's face.

 

Thus ended Doctor Warren Vidic: with a crunch of bone and a grunt, followed by the visceral stench of bowels opening and emptying.

 

What nearly turned Lucy's stomach wasn't the stench, or the way Vidic's limbs kept twitching. It was how Desmond had to use his free hand to keep Vidic's head pressed against the floor, to extricate the hidden blade from the corpse's skull.

 

After, with a negligent flick, Desmond retracted the blade and stood. He looked around. He looked at _her_ , and Lucy's breath caught in her chest at the flash of gold in his eyes. She felt stripped, naked, broken down into component parts; Lucy could only hope that what little bit of bonding she'd managed in the three days since Desmond had been brought in would be enough.

 

She didn't want to die. She _would_ – knew that with as much certainty as she knew that Desmond and she were now the only living beings inside the entire facility – if she went up against him. How many people to a night shift, to keep the building secure, the wheels in motion: thirty? Forty?

 

She'd counted twenty-seven corpses on her way here. Twenty-eight now, with Vidic gone.

 

Desmond looked away from her. The flash of gold faded, leaving her to wonder if she'd only imagined it, after all.

 

“We should get out of here,” he said, to the moon, to the corpse at his feet, still twitching, to no one in particular. Glanced back at her and smiled, boyish and friendly. “Before the cavalry arrives.”

 

 _We_.

 

Lucy allowed herself to experience a tiny bit of hope that her ruse held. She nodded, assuming a less defensive position. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but there would be time for that later. The plan had been all along for her to leave Abstergo's Italian research facility with Desmond in tow; who _cared_ if now, it was apparently going to be the other way around? Vidic was dead, but there were others Lucy could report to, even higher up in the hierarchy than Warren had been.

 

For now, she would worry about her personal safety. She would ensure Desmond trusted her – more than he did, already – and deal with the rest later. She would -

 

“I wasn't talking to you, Templar,” Desmond said gently, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 

Lucy retreated back into her corner, hope fizzling away. He _knew_. Somehow, he knew. For a split second, she thought about lying – about pretending, perhaps laughing and asking him if he'd somehow scrambled his brains in the few hours he'd spent in the Animus; she could tell him that she was on _his_ side, an undercover agent, an _Assassin_.

 

She looked at his face, and the gold glow was back. It wasn't a trick of the light, or the mind. The hood of Desmond's sweater was up and his eyes shone at her like twin pools of amber from the shadows cast over his face, lit from within.

 

She had no idea what it was, or how he did it.

 

But she knew the stance Desmond assumed now, facing her. Had seen it a thousand times before, had been trained in it and taught it to others, back when... _before_.

 

Battle-ready. Lying would be of no use to her, now.

 

Lucy smiled, without mirth. She stood up straight, head high, and squarely looked back at him. She didn't want to die, but she wasn't afraid of death; that was something _they_ had trained out of her, before deserting her, leaving her here, stranded without an anchor in sight.

 

“How?” she asked. A flick of the baton indicated the space in chaos around them, the hallways littered with corpses.

 

Desmond never even looked at the baton in her hand. “You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you.”

 

“Try me,” she challenged. “Everything we had on you, everything _they_ had on you. . . you _were_ a loser. A deserter. You ran away as a teenager. You had a little more than basic training but nothing that would,” she waved the baton again, pointed it at the corpse between them, “account for _this._ I'm assuming that you're going to kill me, anyway, so indulge me: how?”

 

He made no response for the longest time, standing silent and still between her and the door. Between her and a possible chance at survival, but Lucy knew how to realistically calculate the odds – she was not going to give him the pleasure of chasing her like a piece of prey. She owed herself that much dignity.

 

Finally, Desmond murmured, “La shay' haqiqah, koulo shay' moumkin.“

 

A meaningless phrase. It sounded Middle-Eastern, or perhaps it was something he'd simply made up. Frustrated suddenly at the idea that Desmond could be taunting her, or was simply _toying_ with her, Lucy stepped forward. She raised the baton, assuming a battle-ready stance herself.

 

Desmond shrugged, eying her movements carefully. “It's just something he used to say. It took me years to fully understand all that it means.”

 

Lucy frowned. “Who?”

 

“Altaїr.”

 

That made no sense. They'd put Desmond in the Animus _twice_ , and Lucy had poured over the recordings of those sessions, noting every minute detail. Even if Altaїr _had_ said that particular phrase, whatever it meant, Desmond would have repeated it in English, not what she was now assuming was Arabic. The Animus had an internal translation program. And. . .'years'?

 

“Explain,” she demanded. “You sound as if you know him personally.”

 

“I do. Him, and the other one. They raised me.”

 

Was the man insane? There had been Subjects – one of them in particular, but Lucy shied away from thinking of him, now – who'd lost their minds inside the Animus, unable to handle the psychological strain, the Bleed. There had been Subjects who 'bonded' with their ancestors on levels that had made Lucy uneasy. The lines always blurred, sooner or later; some handled it well, some couldn't handle it at all.

 

None had ever claimed to have been _raised_ by their ancestors, however. Neither had any of them ever succumbed so swiftly to the Animus' debilitating effects.

 

“That's crazy,” Lucy said baldly. “ _You're_ crazy.”

 

“Perhaps.” Desmond cocked his head and regarded her intently. His hand flexed at his side, fingers curling and uncurling. He seemed to be making his mind up about something, and said, “It began with a flash of light.”

 

Lucy couldn't help it: she snorted. As if she'd needed any _more_ confirmation that Desmond had a few screws loose. “And God said, let there be light?”

 

“No.” His expression hardened, making him look older, colder. She realized with a start he was being deadly serious. “Not God. There was just light. It changed everything.”

 

And despite it all – despite the corpse between them and the facility in silent ruin around them, despite the emergency crew possibly on their way already from all the way across the city, or the Assassins closing in, despite her death looming more closely now than it ever had before – despite the absurdity of it all: Lucy listened.

 

 

_**Chapter ONE** _

 

\- - -

**New York, April 6 th, 2010**

\- - -

 

There was light.

 

Not at the end of a tunnel, though Desmond could certainly claim to have developed something of a tunnel-vision by now, exhausted as he was; not shining from above, either. There was no moon tonight, no stars, and the only source of electrical illumination was a lamp across the street, blinking erratically and emitting a static hum.

 

There was light, a tiny globe of it, floating at eye-level. Desmond stopped mid-stride, arrested by the sight of that hovering speck. It was late – or very early, depending which side of midnight you lived on – and he was tired: bone-deep weary, the kind of fatigue brought on by a seemingly endless shift at work, magnified by a heatwave that had been holding the city in an unforgiving death grip for a week now.

 

He blinked. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a palm over his face. His skin was sweaty, and he longed for a shower and rest, a few precious hours of sleep with the A/C on full blast. Tonight had been so _dull_. None of the bar's patrons had been in a chatty mood. There hadn't even been one of the usual brawls, which tended to liven up the monotony until calls to the police and emergency services were due.

 

When he looked again, the light was still there. In fact, it had come closer – close enough for him to see that it wasn't a particularly determined firefly.

 

Desmond took a step back. He looked around. The street was deserted, not unusual for four o'clock in the morning. All the windows were dark. He was a block away from his apartment, a block away from trudging up the stairs to the fifth floor because surely no one had bothered to fix the broken elevator yet. . .

 

And there was a light in his way.

 

“What the hell,” Desmond murmured. He thought about alien abductions, the kind of stories told in cheap tabloid papers and cheaper paperbacks; he thought about his paranoia, faithful and steady companion, and how his mind sometimes played tricks on him when he was overly tired. He thought about the possibility that someone had slipped something into the one drink he'd allowed himself, near the end of his shift. “Go away. Shoo.”

 

The light zipped closer.

 

It came at him so fast that Desmond flailed backwards, undignified, a yelp of surprise making it past his lips. He'd _felt_ the heat there, for a second, too close to his face, and his eyes were beginning to water from the intensity of the brightness.

 

Out of sheer reflex, he batted a hand at the light, as one would bat away an annoying fly.

 

The light _exploded_.

 

It consumed him. It invaded his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his nostrils: it crept into every pore of his skin and wound around the strands of his hair, and then it tore him apart. The resulting agony took his breath away.

 

The street vanished from under the soles of his sneakers, turning into something molten, liquid gold shot through with darker veins, sinister and powerful. When at last Desmond managed to draw enough breath into lungs that felt as if they were on fire, he screamed into a glowing void, shapeless and infinite.

 

A voice boomed out of that shapeless void, assaulting his ears. The words were in a language Desmond had never heard before and certainly didn't care about: his ears were bursting, his skin was shriveling up, his bones were _bending_ -

 

“For you to shape and mold, Son of None,” the voice said, suddenly in flawless English. “We do this for you.”

 

Desmond tilted around his body's axis. His stomach rebelled. He was amazed he still _had_ a stomach he could feel rebelling. He felt torn asunder, violated; that fucking light was everywhere and he _hurt_ like he'd never hurt before, on levels that went beyond torn skin and broken bone.

 

“Do not disappoint,” the voice said.

 

With an audible snap, the light ceased to exist. For a bare second Desmond saw the shape of a woman, tall and imposing, stern-looking in strange garb. She smiled at him, grimly, her lips moving, forming words that never reached his ears: reality asserted itself in a renewed rush of agony, robbing Desmond of any coherent thought.

 

Darkness enveloped him, a welcome refuge from too much brightness. It offered oblivion, sanctuary from the pain. Thankful, Desmond surrendered to it.

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, April 6 th, 1192**

\- - -

 

“. . .was a mistake!”

 

“I know what I'm doing.”

 

“Do you? Do you really _know_?”

 

Too loud. Desmond surfaced from darkness and the lulling nothingness of dreamless sleep with a groan, wishing both speakers to hell. He opened his eyes, saw indistinct shapes, blurry and fuzzy, and closed them again. He felt weightless, as if afloat, whatever surface he lay on moving in a steady rhythm that did nothing to calm the sudden queasiness that came in the wake of regaining consciousness.

 

“He is awake,” said the first speaker, after a pregnant pause.

 

“I can see that, thank you.”

 

 _Far_ too loud. Desmond attempted to tell them both to go to hell, but his throat felt as if it was covered in sandpaper and what came out was a croak, rough and painful. He lay on something that was moving and was covered with something unpleasantly scratchy rubbing against skin that felt far too sensitive, as if he'd sustained a sunburn.

 

He was prodded. He was poked. Both actions only served to drive home the point that Desmond was _in pain_ , feeling as if he'd been put through one hell of a fight with someone twice his sight and three times his weight. He made a disgruntled noise, hoping that whoever was doing the prodding and poking would get the hint and leave him the heck alone, at least until he'd regained his bearings.

 

He'd been on his way home. He'd been wishing for a shower and bed.

 

He remembered the light.

 

Desmond forced his eyes open, willed himself to ignore the many aches of his body. He distinctly remembered the light, but only very little of what followed, something he had a feeling he should be thankful for. Above everything, though, he remembered the darkness closing about him, which meant he'd lost consciousness.

 

Which meant he had no idea where he was, or who was touching him.

 

He pushed himself up, both palms shoving against the moving surface. He managed to get his knees under him, but he didn't manage to stand: his muscles wouldn't properly respond to his commands, and there was something wrong with his center of gravity.

 

A hand at his back steadied him. It _covered_ him from shoulder blades to tailbone.

 

Desmond looked up. The fuzzy shapes resolved into furniture and walls, some place he'd never seen before. The moving surface turned into a giant of a man, reclining on a sort of couch. He wore a strange kind of robe, black, with a large hood and embroidery at the lapels.

 

Desmond was kneeling on the giant's belly. It was the giant's hand on his back.

 

The giant wore Desmond's face.

 

Desmond sat back on his heels, stupefied. After a lengthy pause, the giant-wearing-his-face offered, “Hello.”

 

Someone groaned. Desmond turned his head just in time to witness another giant, sitting by the side of the couch in an elaborately carved chair, dragging a palm over his face in obvious annoyance. This giant had black hair and a scruffy goatee, gray eyes; he dropped his hand to his knee and shook his head at the other giant.

 

“You know nothing of children, Altaїr.”

 

“Neither do you,” the giant-wearing-Desmond's-face pointed out, rather testily. And added, “This isn't a child, at any rate.”

 

Desmond decided someone _had_ slipped a roofie into his one drink at the bar, after all. He was hallucinating. He'd tripped over something on the way home, hit his head; he was probably lying face-down on the sidewalk right now. Hopefully, some kindhearted pedestrian would think to call an ambulance, rather than snap a photo and post it on Facebook or Tumblr with an embarrassing capture.

 

 _That_ would be more than embarrassing, actually. That would be downright dangerous, considering the need for anonymity much of Desmond's current lifestyle depended on. Photos of him appearing all over the Internet were the last thing he needed.

 

“Here,” said the black-haired giant. He offered a cup to Desmond. “Drink this.”

 

Desmond stared at the cup. It wasn't like any cup he'd ever seen before. It was shallow and looked hand-made. It had no handle. The liquid in it gave off small clouds of condensation and smelled faintly sweet.

 

'I'm going to wake up any moment now,' Desmond thought, reaching for the cup. He _was_ parched, and really, none of this was anything but an illusion. The giants could offer him rainbow-shaped cookies and he would eat them – it wasn't going to affect him.

 

It wasn't his hand, reaching for the cup.

 

Desmond blinked. This _wasn't_ his hand. This was a child's hand, plump and short-fingered, with tiny fingernails.

 

“Uh-oh,” the black-haired giant murmured, pulling the cup away.

 

Desmond looked at his wrist. _Not_ his wrist. He looked at his arm, soft and round, not muscular like he was used to. He looked down at himself, saw a flat chest, undeveloped and hairless. Knobby knees. _Not_ his knees.

 

 _Not his body_.

 

The giant-wearing-his-face shifted and Desmond nearly tumbled sideways, too caught up in this recent development to his hallucination, dream, drug-induced illusion – _whatever_ it was – to compensate for the unexpected movement. Hands caught him, strong and long-fingered, wrapping around his torso with a strength that hinted at the ability to crush the life right out of him.

 

He was lifted. _Lifted!_

 

He'd been covered with a blanket, and that slipped away now as he dangled, held aloft by the giant's hands.

 

He felt the pressure against his ribcage, his back where those long fingers met. He smelled the giant's breath as words were uttered, smelled a faint trace of garlic and other spices, food recently eaten. He didn't understand a word that was said, hearing only a kind of rushing noise, like the wind following in the wake of a passing train.

 

These men weren't giants. It was Desmond who was tiny. Tiny and naked.

 

“. . .can explain,” the one called Altaїr, the one wearing Desmond's face, was saying. “The Piece of Eden -”

 

“That's not important right now,” the black-haired one snapped. “Look at him! He's about to -”

 

Desmond decided right there and then that he'd had enough: he'd been a passive participant in this for far too long. Whether or not it was a hallucination, whether or not he was experiencing a _very_ realistic effect of drugs or suffering through a head trauma resulting from hitting the pavement, he was _not_ going to remain passive any longer. At the very least, he was going to put some much-needed space between himself and everyone else.

 

He kicked Altaїr in the face. Hard.

 

Pain shot up from his heel to his hip from the force of it, but he achieved the desired result: he was let go. Dropping the short distance to the couch, Desmond _bounced_ – scrabbled for purchase while above him, a surprised rather than pained grunt sounded, and rolled over the edge of the seat to a cold marble floor.

 

He'd created just enough of a window of opportunity for himself to gain a swift overview of the room. Desmond darted for the first thing that offered shelter: a heavy, tall bookshelf, the lowest shelf just high enough above the floor that he could slip under it.

 

He robbed through dust, all the way until he encountered the solidity of a wall.

 

There, he curled up, his back against rough, cool stone. He closed his eyes, put his palms over his ears, and resolved himself to wait until all of this was over.

 

He waited for a long time.

 

He waited until the muffled sounds of agitated conversation reaching him under the bookshelf faded, and then he waited some more. Once or twice, he opened his eyes. No one attempted to drag him out of his hiding place. He was faintly surprised they didn't: the bookshelf wasn't _that_ large. A grown man could have simply reached under it and grabbed him.

 

Eventually the cool stone began to leech the warmth out of him. He became aware, anew, of how he was still aching, and remembered more clearly now all that had come in the wake of the exploding light: that feeling of bending bones and shriveling skin – as though he'd been _shrinking_ , but no, that was insane, that was _crazy_.

 

Wasn't it? He was, after all, small enough to be hiding under a bookshelf at the moment.

 

The third time Desmond opened his eyes, there was a pair of boots in his line of sight. They shifted, crossing at the ankles, and whoever they belonged to sat down cross-legged fluidly. A hand appeared, and Desmond tensed, but it was only another cup that was set down on the floor and then pushed gently under the bookshelf, dispensing fragrant steam.

 

The hand was missing its ring-finger. A minor detail, noted and immediately discarded as meaningless information. The cup was of far more interest to Desmond at the moment, but he hesitated to reach for it.

 

He was so thirsty. Yet caution had ruled him, caution and paranoia, ever since he'd broken free and made his own path. So far, neither Altaїr nor the other man had acted in order to _harm_ him, but still. . .

 

“I can explain everything,” a quiet voice, _his_ voice, offered, answering to his doubts. “I went through much trouble to get you. Believe me when I tell you that I will not harm you.”

 

To get him? Desmond remembered the woman's voice. _For you to shape and mold, Son of None._

 

None of this made sense.

 

At a glacial pace, he reached for the cup, half-expecting to have his wrist grabbed. When no antagonistic move was made, Desmond tugged the cup closer, lifting himself awkwardly on one elbow to take a cautious sip. It was tea, something herbal and heavily sweetened. To mask the taste of poison?

 

It tasted heavenly and was a balm to his parched throat.

 

“Will you come out from under there, or am I going to hold this conversation with Malik's collection of maps?”

 

Who was Malik? Probably the black-haired man. He didn't seem to be in the room, now. Desmond took another sip of tea, weighing his options. He rather liked it here, under the bookshelf, if only because it at least offered a semblance of shelter. Half of him was still convinced he'd wake up any moment now, to a nurse's tender smile or at the very least the trash-littered sidewalk.

 

The other half was slowly coming to terms with the fact that this _wasn't_ a hallucination or a dream.

 

That meant having to face whatever was out there, including the man who'd offered him tea and an explanation.

 

Desmond set the cup down. Apprehension crawled along his spine, but he beat it down; he'd never been a _coward_ and he wasn't going to start being one now. Still, he robbed slowly back toward the edge of the shelf. There was a moment when he was half out, half still under it, when he lifted his head and looked up to see a painfully familiar pair of eyes watching him avidly, when it felt like he was making a dire mistake.

 

He pushed himself to his feet. With Altaїr sitting on the floor and Desmond standing, their faces were roughly on the same level. Wordless, tense, Desmond noted that although there were many similarities, there were enough differences, too: Altaїr's face was narrower, his skin darker, his cheekbones more prominent. He certainly had more of a beard shadow than Desmond, too.

 

He wanted a mirror, suddenly. He wanted to know what _he_ looked like, now. Most of all, he wanted to know _why_ they looked so much alike. Did he have a twin brother his parents had somehow forgot to mention?

 

Altaїr moved his hand. Desmond shrank back, bumping into the bookshelf. “Don't touch me!”

 

His voice sounded younger, higher.

 

“I won't,” Altaїr said. He reached under the bookshelf and retrieved the cup. “Do you remember what happened?”

 

“There was a light. . .” This was going to take some time getting used to, this voice. Desmond glared at the man sitting before him. “You said you went through trouble to 'get me'. Why?”

 

“The Apple said it was important that I train you.”

 

Desmond blinked. “A _fruit_ told you to -”

 

“No. Not an apple. _The_ Apple.” Altaїr chuckled under his breath. “Sometimes I wish it _was_ just a fruit, but. . .” He cocked his head, regarding Desmond quietly. “Come. I will show you.”

 

Desmond had half a mind to kick Altaїr in the face again, if only to release some of his mounting frustration. Apples? Flashing lights that shrunk him? He'd been hoping for some kind of explanation for this insanity. Instead, every word he heard only added more confusion.

 

Altaїr rose to his feet, black robe billowing around him. Cup in hand, he hesitated. “Will you allow me to carry you? And perhaps, some clothes before we leave the room.”

 

Desmond stared up at him. “Carry me? Why?”

 

“It would help with the ruse.”

 

“What ruse?”

 

“That you're my son.” Altaїr put the cup down on a nearby table and picked up a small bundle of cloth. “I was going to have to explain your existence somehow, and that seemed the easiest way.” He hesitated again, glancing sideways at Desmond. “It might also help if you acted less like an adult, at least around the others.”

 

“I am a fucking adult!” Desmond shouted, despite all evidence currently saying otherwise. “You can't just – you can't just kidnap me! And what's with this fucking shrinking business? Who the hell do you think you _are_?”

 

Altaїr remained infuriatingly calm in the face of Desmond's outbreak. If anything, the man seemed slightly amused, which only served to make Desmond that much madder. Stalking across the room, he prepared to deliver what he hoped was going to be a painful kick to Altaїr's ankle, but before his foot connected, Altaїr bent and simply lifted him up.

 

Again.

 

“Put me down!” Desmond snarled, infuriated. Just because he was smaller now didn't mean everyone got a free turn at grabbing him whenever they felt like it. He attempted to kick Altaїr in the face again, but the man learned fast: he held him at arm's length this time. “You've got no right! Put me the fuck -”

 

“La shay' haqiqah, koulo shay' moumkin.”

 

Meaningless gibberish. “ _What?_ ”

 

Altaїr's eyes narrowed, much of his amusement bleeding away into a sombre expression. “'Nothing is true. Everything is permitted'. So, I have _every_ right.”

 

The last time Desmond had heard these particular words, it had been his father speaking them, right before launching into another lecture about Desmond's lack of understanding of what they meant. That had been in another place, almost another lifetime. Shocked to hear the familiar phrase, Desmond stared hard at the other man. Altaїr was an Assassin?

 

He certainly didn't look like one, what with the black, embroidered robe and the strange-looking tunic under it. And what was it with that odd, wide belt? Not to mention that red sash under it. Those clothes looked more like they'd come out of some role-playing game, someone's attempt to recreate something that might have been in fashion several hundred years -

 

Desmond's train of thought came to a screeching halt.

 

He looked past Altaїr. He hadn't paid much attention to the room before, only enough to locate his temporary shelter under the bookshelf; now he did, fighting off rising panic. There were colorfully woven carpets on the wall. Potted, exotic plants livened up the corners. There was a _fountain_ at one wall, bubbling merrily.

 

There was a notable lack of anything that approached electronics or looked even remotely modern. The furniture looked handmade, lacking the uniform smoothness that came with industrialized manufacturing procedures. Even the chandelier above held what looked like real candles.

 

The entire place looked like it came straight out of '1001 Arabian Nights”.

 

“This is,” Desmond said, unable to continue. This was some elaborate plot – something the Templars had thought up, or _someone_ , at any rate, with the intention to. . .what? Confuse him? They'd certainly managed that. “Where am I?”

 

Altaїr sat him down on the table. He shook out the bundle of cloth he'd held before, which turned out to be a tunic similar to the one he was wearing. Without further ado, he proceeded to pull the thing over Desmond's head, tugging and adjusting until he was satisfied.

 

It was a shapeless, scratchy piece of clothing, coming down to Desmond's knees, but he suddenly lacked the strength to protest the manhandling. He had been kidnapped, he had been _shrunk_ , and he had the distinct feeling that it was only going to get worse.

 

Altaїr picked him up again, tucking Desmond into the crook of one arm. “The question you should be asking,” he said, walking over to a tall window and opening it, “is _when_.”

 

The sight that greeted him outside the window made Desmond forget about being angry at being picked up once more.

 

Sunlight, golden and warm, poured over the ragged tips of a distant mountain range, cresting in the valley below. Miniature huts clustered on the banks of a winding river, square and unlike any houses Desmond had ever seen before. The roads, mere trampled dust from the looks of it, were haphazardly laid, edged by trees and shrubbery that were foreign to him.

 

Everything was foreign to him. The people, moving busily to and fro between the huts, wore strange clothes. Sheep and cattle grazed on meager grass, and even these animals had a rugged, undomesticated look to them.

 

Altaїr climbed out of the window, ignoring Desmond's surprised, fearful squawk of protest. A short drop and a jarring impact landed them on a short walkway, ten feet or so beneath the window. It connected two towers, Desmond saw, looking around – the one they had come from, and another, even taller one.

 

Dizzy from many new impressions, short of breath when the implications began to fully sink in, Desmond craned his neck, looking around while Altaїr nonchalantly made his way to the approximate middle between the two towers.

 

Around them rose a fortress, built from and into the sand-colored rock, presiding majestically over the valley and the village below. Banners fluttered in the warm, mild breeze, emblazoned with a familiar sigil, red on white. Below them, on a steep path winding between rocky outcrops, men and women had set up a market of sorts, and many voices reached Desmond's ears while he looked, the speakers too far away to make out individual words. White-clad, hooded individuals moved between the peasants, openly displaying, and Desmond blinked at the sight of that, bows and swords.

 

There were horses. There were horse-drawn carts. There were fires lit, around which people sat and talked.

 

There were no cars. There were no telephone poles, no cell phone towers, no skyscrapers.

 

“Welcome to Masyaf, Desmond Miles,” Altaїr said. “The year is 1192, and it is spring.”

 

“Bullshit,” Desmond said automatically. “That's bullshit. You're telling me this is the past? That I'm in the past?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Bullshit,” Desmond repeated.

 

Altaїr said, “Hold on.”

 

He'd meant it literally – Desmond suddenly had to clutch tightly at a damnably smooth robe to save himself from a sharp drop to the ground as the support of Altaїr's arm vanished and he was left dangling from the man's front. Cursing under his breath, heart beating in his throat, Desmond managed to wrap his arms around Altaїr's neck – turned his head and saw one of the towers approaching at an alarmingly fast rate -

 

“No, no, nono _nono_ -”

 

And then they were scaling up the sheer wall. Or rather, Altaїr was, while Desmond clung to him like grim death, hating this small body's slow reflexes and lack of strength. He glanced down, to where the walkway was rapidly further and further away at a speed that shouldn't have been humanly possible. How high up were they, now? Ten feet? Twenty?

 

A drop from that height would kill him.

 

He shut his eyes and concentrated on holding on.

 

In less than a minute, their rapid ascent came to a halt. Altaїr wasn't even breathing hard when he swung over the edge of the top of the tower, as if scaling sheer walls was something he did every day. Desmond, on the other hand, felt as though someone had torn the muscles out of his arms and shoulders and replaced them with white-hot strings of _pain_.

 

Altaїr's low chuckle did nothing to soothe beyond-frayed nerves. “You can let go now.”

 

Currently not trusting his voice, Desmond settled for a dark glower – and a quiet promise to himself to stab Altaїr with the next piece of sharp metal he could get his hands on. He was trembling all over and only half of that came from the strain of holding on.

 

As soon as there was solid ground under his feet, he staggered out of arm's reach. Desmond wasn't afraid of heights; hanging from some stranger's neck, a stranger who _wore his face_ , dependent. . . was something else altogether.

 

The top of the tower was remarkably plain: rough stone, a hatch to one side that allowed access to whatever was inside the tower, a flag pole, which Desmond clutched at, catching his breath. Up here, the breeze was sharper, colder. The air smelled clean – none of the metallic tang that was so typical to big cities, where thousands, if not millions, of human beings lived far too closely together and the streets were congested with vehicles.

 

The view was breathtaking.

 

Not that there was much to see: beyond the valley and the village was open land, plain and bare under the sun to one side, while the other side was mountainous. Shielding his eyes against the brightness, Desmond turned in a slow circle, hoping for some kind of sign, something that would belie Altaїr's claim. A belching factory in the distance, or perhaps the well-known, smooth band of a concrete street, or the skyline of a city somewhere.

 

“Do you not wonder,” Altaїr asked, “why we look so much alike?”

 

There was nothing.

 

Desmond glanced over his shoulder to find Altaїr seated cross-legged once more, hands folded under his chin. Of course he wondered. It was impossible not to. He just wasn't sure if any _more_ convoluted explanations weren't going to send him running screaming off into the distance, convinced he'd utterly lost his mind.

 

“I'm your ancestor,” Altaїr said.

 

“And you kidnapped me.” Desmond twirled a hand at their surroundings. “Into the past.”

 

Altaїr nodded.

 

“ _Why_?”

 

“I told you: it is important that I train you. Much hinges on you in the future. If I'm to believe what the Apple tells me, the existence of the human race.”

 

“I. . . “ Desmond didn't know what to say, other than stating the obvious: that Altaїr was _insane_. Staring at the rough stone of the tower's roof, he was at a loss. He felt like screaming, after all. “I want a mirror.”

 

No answer came for so long that Desmond thought his request was going to be ignored. Then cloth rustled, boot scraped against stone, and Altaїr's bulk blocked the sun. Desmond was lifted once more. This time, he didn't mind it so much.

 

Altaїr opened the hatch and descended a steep wooden ladder into the interior of the tower. It was notably cooler inside and smelled distinctly of bird droppings. Wooden beams were arranged along the walls around them and above their heads. A pair of pigeons roosted in a corner, watching their descent.

 

Soon wooden ladders and beams gave way to solid stone floors and marble staircases. Voices reached them, and Desmond began to wonder how everyone around him, including Altaїr and that other man, Malik, spoke flawless English when all evidence pointed to this being the Middle East – the Middle East in the _past_ , no less.

 

“Don't speak unless you're prepared to be looked at oddly,” Altaїr murmured. They were approaching a heavy door flanked by a pair of guards, who bowed shortly to Altaїr and looked with open curiosity at Desmond. “Many of my men are a lot less open-minded than I am.”

 

Desmond wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean, but shelved his questions for later. Both guards were heavily armed, their faces stern-looking and weathered, their eyes dark and their gazes intent.

 

“Mentor,” one of them, with a black beard, greeted. “I've not yet had the pleasure of congratulating you on the unexpected return of your son. Allah smiles on you, Altaїr.”

 

'Mentor'? Desmond eyed the guards with curiosity. The black-bearded one's greeting had been cordial enough, but there was something. . .

 

“Many thanks,” Altaїr said. He sounded different now, harder. Even his posture had changed, Desmond feeling the tension.

 

“I trust you find our great and splendid fortress to your liking?”

 

Desmond realized the question had been aimed at him. Floundering, he looked between Altaїr and the black-bearded guard, hoping for some kind of pointer, but Altaїr's gaze was fixed straight ahead and the guard was slowly lifting an eyebrow.

 

He settled for nodding, convinced that not speaking was by far the safer option.

 

“By Allah, he does look a lot like you,” the other guard said, stepping closer. “But his skin! So pale. Is he sick?”

 

“Hardly. His mother kept him indoors, that is all.” Imperiously, Altaїr glanced down his nose at the two guards, impatience barely masked. “Now, if you'll excuse us. . .”

 

“Of course, of course, Mentor.” The black-bearded guard stepped away and bowed once more, while his partner unlocked and opened the door. “May the evening find you and yours well, Altaїr.”

 

“You, as well, Abbas.”

 

As soon as they'd stepped through and the door was shut behind them, Desmond bent his head close to Altaїr's and asked in a heated whisper, “What the hell was that?”

 

“My position here and the. . .way I acquired it is the cause of some dispute. I am the Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood.” Altaїr smiled in a way that showed teeth. “Not all of my brothers agree with that. I will explain later.”

 

Desmond sighed noisily. So it _had_ been hostility he'd sensed, from the guard called Abbas. Wonderful.

 

“Did it ever occur to you that kidnapping me and somehow sticking me in the body of a fucking _toddler_ is leaving me at a serious disadvantage?” They were on a wide walkway, apparently deserted, but Desmond still kept his voice to a whisper. “What am I supposed to do if one of your 'brothers' decides to come after me? Kick them in the ankle?”

 

Altaїr headed for yet another staircase. “That will not happen.”

 

“Oh, great, that makes me feel _so_ -“

 

“Desmond.” Altaїr stopped walking. He shifted Desmond, just enough so they were facing one another. Gone was the smile, replaced by an expression so intent and glacially calm Desmond trailed off mid-sentence, transfixed. “They'd have to go through me, to get to you. That _will not_ happen.”

 

People speaking in absolutes usually found out sooner or later that _nothing_ in the world was purely black and white. Unsettled, but unwilling to pursue the subject further at the moment, Desmond averted his gaze. He knew he hadn't yet fully grasped all that had happened to him, but already he felt that much _more_ insecure than he had ten minutes ago.

 

Altaїr appeared equally as unwilling to speak further of this. Their walk continued in silence, down a wide, marble staircase that connected to a grander staircase, which ended in a wide hall. Through an open doorway, Desmond glimpsed at bit of a garden, pleasant and neat with white stone paths and lush greenery.

 

Altaїr headed further into the fortress, however. Soon, Desmond lost count of the turns they took and the doors they passed; the place hadn't looked _that_ large from his vantage point atop the tower, but he noticed now that his initial impression had been misleading.

 

At long last they arrived at yet another heavy door. Beyond lay a lavish room, spacious and airy. Tall, wide windows let in the full brightness of the sun and the breeze. The entire place was cluttered in the way that spoke of homeliness: bookshelves and tables were overflowing with yellowed parchment and leather-bound tomes. Clothes had been piled in one corner, black and white and brown leather, boots and sandals and _slippers_ in a smaller pile in another corner. An assortment of odd items lined the shelves and the tables, instruments Desmond couldn't make heads or tails of, and one wall was covered almost entirely with a beautifully hand-drawn map of a city.

 

A wide bed stood against one wall, blankets and pillows strewn everywhere. Amid them lounged the black-haired man Desmond had seen before – Malik? He was pouring over a large tome, a plate of fruit and flat bread on a small table within arm's reach.

 

“News of your acrobatics up the tower are all over Masyaf,” Malik said by way of greeting. He didn't even look up from his reading, displaying none of the air of servitude the two guards had shown, laced with hostility as it may have been. “I hear the path guards already made bets as to when they'll have to scrape your shattered body off the rocks.”

 

Altaїr set Desmond down, apparently used to Malik's way of speaking. “I've been climbing that tower since I was twelve years old.”

 

“Yes, yes. . . and never fallen off once. I know.” At last, Malik looked up. “Not yet, at any rate.”

 

Desmond didn't know what to make of the other man. The way they conversed spoke of some familiarity, and Malik was either in Altaїr's personal chambers, or they were in Malik's. He glanced up at Altaїr, who was in the process of taking off his black, embroidered robe, noting for the first time that they even wore their _hair_ cut in a similar style.

 

He looked away. Malik was eying him with unbridled curiosity, Altaїr was, for the time being, ignoring him, and that sensation of uneasiness, queasiness settled in the pit of Desmond's stomach again.

 

He was stranded, in a foreign place, in a time that wasn't his own, surrounded by people he didn't know, and the man responsible for it all apparently expected him to just take it in stride.

 

There was a mirror across the room, squeezed in between a tall bookshelf and a large wooden mannequin of sorts, the latter hung with all kinds of belts, weapons and other knickknacks. Slowly, Desmond made his way over, stepping over discarded scrolls, around a small mountain of haphazardly stacked books.

 

The boy staring back at him out of the mirror was a stranger.

 

There had been no commemorative family photos during Desmond's childhood, yet another security measure to protect the children growing up well-guarded and suffocated in that awful place, the 'Farm'. Desmond's memory of himself as a child was fuzzy, indistinct – he mostly recalled those forced moments of happiness during birthday parties, where everyone gathered to pretend they weren't raising their children in what amounted to prison, cut off from the outside world by choice.

 

The boy – _he_ looked normal enough, Desmond supposed. Small, with short legs and knobby knees. The tunic hung off of him at odd angles – it was too large. His face was round, his head crowned by a tousled mess of short, dark hair. The scar across his mouth, acquired during a heated training session with his father, was gone. He looked three, maybe four years old.

 

Desmond wanted to scream.

 

Instead, he said, “This is obscene.” He half-turned away from the mirror. Altaїr had settled on the edge of the bed next to Malik, barefoot, and both men were regarding him quietly. “Turn me back,” Desmond demanded, pointing at his reflection. “You had no right to turn me into – into _this_.”

 

“I told you -” Altaїr began.

 

“I don't give a shit about what you told me,” Desmond grated. “Or what right you _think_ you have! Turn me back!”

 

Altaїr said, “No.”

 

Grabbing the next thing his blurring gaze settled on, Desmond flung it in Altaїr's direction. It was a book, leather-bound and heavy. His aim was off – his _strength_ wasn't what it used to be – and the book bounced harmlessly against the edge of the bed before it fell to the floor, scattering a few loose pages.

 

Altaїr looked singularly unimpressed. Malik looked like he was about to laugh.

 

“He certainly has your temper,” Malik commented.

 

Desmond wished for a knife. A stone. Anything to throw, anything that would _hurt_ – he looked at the array of weapons hanging from the wooden mannequin, spying a set of small knives in flat sheathes. Knife-throwing had never been his forte, but he was more than willing to put what knowledge he had about that deadly art to use.

 

“Desmond,” Altaїr said, diverting his attention for a bare second from imagined manslaughter. He held up a dully golden ball. “Look.”

 

About to point out where Altaїr could shove that lump of metal, Desmond fell silent as the thing began to glow. He took an automatic step backward, vividly recalling his latest encounter with glowing things. This, however, wasn't the searing brightness that had swept him up and torn him apart. This glow was gentle, almost soothing, and there were _shapes_ moving in that glow.

 

Familiar shapes. Frowning, Desmond moved closer. There was the well-known skyline of New York, brightly outlined and magnificent. A miniature sun hung peacefully above the skyscrapers, warming matchbox-cars and ant-people moving to and fro between the buildings. An airplane, trailblazing gold across the amber-colored sky, swept in a lazy curve toward Liberty Island.

 

The sun exploded.

 

 _That's the last time I look at anything that glows_ , Desmond thought, tiredly.

 

He braced for a renewed wave of agony as the light rushed toward him, but it wasn't pain that swept him up and carried him off into darkness, this time.

 

It was imagery.

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 12 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

Vidic's laptop emitted a fizzle of electricity, startling Lucy. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts, realizing she stood with the baton in a loose grip at her side, completely unguarded. The moon had continued it course across the night-black sky, the shadows had shifted; Desmond was still outlined by a faint silvery glow while Lucy stood in almost complete darkness.

 

She cleared her throat. Still, it came out as a whisper: “What did you see?”

 

Desmond said quietly, “The end of the world.”

 


	2. TWO

_**Chapter TWO** _

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 12 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

The Assassins swarmed across the facility like an army of shadows, moving swiftly and silently. Flanked by two tight-lipped, hooded men she didn't know, her hands behind her in plastic cuffs, Lucy was brought into the entrance hall of the building. They'd relieved her of her baton and patted her down, finding her cell phone and the knife tucked into her boot shaft but not the small blade in a hidden compartment in her boot _heel_.

 

Not that it mattered. Surrounded by men and women who had once been her friends and allies, who now eyed her with contempt and outright hatred, attempting to free herself, to launch an attack, would equal suicide. Desmond hadn't killed her; Lucy wasn't going to throw away the small chance at survival that yet existed. Perhaps Desmond wasn't as cold as she thought him to be. Perhaps she _had_ managed to form a bond, however superficial, that prevented him from striking the killing blow.

 

She spied him standing near the wide-open entrance doors, flanked by two familiar faces. Shaun Hastings looked at her without expression, but his posture was standoffish and after glancing at her once, he looked away. Rebecca Crane was a different story: the woman fidgeted where she stood, staring at Lucy with an expression of loss and sadness.

 

Desmond didn't look at her at all. He was speaking into a cell phone.

 

Lucy lifted her chin. It hurt, to see people she had once trusted with her life now looking at her as though she was a black sheep, already on the butcher's block, but she wasn't going to let them see how much it pained her. _They_ had abandoned her first _– they_ had not idea what Lucy had gone through, for a cause she found herself less and less convinced of as the years went by.

 

If this was going to be her walk of shame, she wasn't going to let them make her crawl.

 

She was led outside, into a cool, Italian night. Unmarked cars ringed the entrance to Abstergo's research facility. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen so many hooded people, faceless and nameless. It felt a century ago, and she took no comfort from the sight, now.

 

She wasn't one of them, not any more.

 

Her guards pushed her against the side of one of the cars. Something was pulled over her head, obstructing her view and instilling a frisson of panic that she was going to be executed right here in the parking lot. Then a car door opened and she was roughly pushed inside, landing on her side on the upholstery.

 

She lay there for endless minutes, attempting to get her bearings. She was alone inside the car, as far as she could tell. Without difficulty, Lucy managed to get into an upright position, reclining against the seat and forcing herself to relax. Panic was not going to be of any use to her, now.

 

Instead, she focused on the immediate situation. Taking over the facility had been Desmond's doing, and his alone; the unmarked cars had pulled into the parking lot long minutes _after_ he'd stopped his convoluted, absurd, fascinating tale with those ominous words.

 

_The end of the world_.

 

Lucy didn't know whether to believe Desmond or not. It sounded too fantastical. Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad had lived and died centuries ago. He'd become a legendary figure, but more so among the _Templars_ than the Assassins, though he had greatly shaped and influenced the brotherhood. Abstergo's main interest in that long-dead man didn't so much revolve around who he'd been and what he'd done, but instead focused on what the upper echelon of the Templars believed had been in Altaїr's possession: one of the Pieces of Eden.

 

Desmond's story mentioned an Apple of Eden. In fact, the Apple was at the center of it.

 

The car door opened. Someone climbed into the backseat and sat heavily next to her.

 

“Desmond?”

 

“He makes an impression, doesn't he?” It wasn't Desmond.

 

Still, Lucy recognized the voice. “William.”

 

“Such contempt.”

 

“Take those cuffs off me, and I'll show you how I _really_ feel about you.”

 

Lucy wished she could see him. Desmond's father had been instrumental in landing her where she was now – it was William who had uncovered the Templar plans revolving around the Animus Project, and it had been William who came up with the idea of slipping in undercover agents in order to keep an eye on the project.

 

She wondered if it had been William's idea, too, to let Abstergo get a hold of Desmond. By all accounts, father and son were estranged – had been, for years. Now, Lucy couldn't help wondering if it was once more William Miles in the background, pulling the strings.

 

“Perhaps later.” William's voice was closer now, and she felt him leaning into her space. “My son insists on keeping you alive. Why, I don't know. But you make one wrong move and I'll slit your worthless throat myself, and to hell with what Desmond wants.”

 

_That_ was the William Miles she knew: running roughshod over everyone, firm in the belief he knew what was best for all. Lucy almost laughed at the threat; she'd been working under incredible pressure for years, going back and forth between the Templars and the Assassins, a double-double-agent. She'd risked her life on a daily basis, first when she'd infiltrated Abstergo and later, after her allegiance had shifted, when she carefully began to manipulate the Assassins – did he really think his threat was going to _impress_ her?

 

“Mark my words,” William added.

 

The car door opened and shut, and Lucy was alone once more.

 

Not for long, however: only moments later, doors were opened and shut, another weight settled next to her. With a quiet hum, the car started. Lucy sensed the movement when it rolled forward and wondered where they were going.

 

“What did my father want with you?”

 

Desmond's voice came from her side, meaning someone else was driving. Perhaps it was William?

 

“To threaten me,” Lucy said bluntly. She tossed her head. “It this really necessary?”

 

The hood or sack, whatever it was they had pulled over her head, was lifted and tugged off. Lucy's first glance wasn't to the man sitting at her side, but the window. The car was headed away from the research facility at a moderate pace. She recognized the road: in a few minutes, they would hit the the route that led toward the city.

 

Lucy looked at the driver. It wasn't William. “Hello, Shaun.”

 

“Lucy.” There was barely any inflection in the British researcher's voice. He looked at her once in the rear view-mirror, then focused on the road again. “This isn't quite the way I imagined our eventual reunion.”

 

She shrugged, uncomfortable with her hands bound behind her. “Things change.”

 

“Apparently,” Shaun said sharply. He seemed on the verge of wanting to say more, but then his lips thinned and he straightened up in the driver's seat. “I don't want to talk to you.”

 

“Then don't.”

 

Lucy dismissed Shaun Hastings from her immediate attention. She'd liked him well enough, back then, enjoyed his witty sarcasm and often biting commentary on everything and anything. Still, he was only one more pawn in the Assassin's futile game, and a minor one at that.

 

She turned to Desmond. He sat next to her, calm and collected, a piece of folded, black cloth in one hand. He still wore the hoodie with its blood-soaked sleeve, but the hood was down now, and Desmond was looking at the dark landscape they were driving through, gaze distant.

 

“Tell me more,” Lucy demanded. “What did you mean, 'the end of the world'?”

 

“Oh, fantastic. She knows?” Shaun's tone of voice was sharp. “What, had a little chat with the Templar while waiting for the cavalry to arrive? I should -”

 

“Shaun,” Desmond said, “shut up.”

 

There was an immediate change of atmosphere within the car's confines; fascinated, Lucy realized it was _unease_ that was suddenly radiating from the man in the front. There weren't many things that would stop Shaun's runs-a-mile-mouth, Lucy knew from personal experience, and yet Desmond had managed.

 

“On December 21st, 2012,” Desmond said, still looking out the window, “solar flares will leave everyone a little crispy and well-done, if they don't happen to be in a bunker on that day. Civilization as we know it will cease to exist. In fact, we're pretty much looking at the end of _everything_.”

 

“You truly believe that?” Lucy stared at the side of Desmond's face.

 

“I do.”

 

“Why? Because 'Altaїr' told you so?”

 

“The Apple showed me.” He glanced at her sideways. “You know what they are, these Pieces of Eden.”

 

She did. The whole reason for finding and abducting Desmond had, after all, been to locate more of the fabled pieces of technology left behind by Those Who Came Before, that incredibly advanced, almost omnipotent creator race she'd first heard of from Dr. Vidic. In fact, the Animus Project in part existed only to locate these Pieces.

 

“Then you know how powerful they are, and what they can do. I don't care if you believe me, but I know what I've seen.” Desmond tapped his fingers against his thigh and added, much more quietly, “It's why _he_ took me – why he risked so much. So that I would be ready. All he did, he did for me.”

 

Lucy desperately wished to have her hands free, if only to be able to rub at her temples. She'd seen Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad through the Animus – a cocky, arrogant bastard, convinced he could do no wrong. An impressively skilled Assassin, undoubtedly, but certainly not the far-sighted, saint-like figure Desmond described him as.

 

And December, 2012? That was less than four months from now.

 

Surely the Templars, who already had several Pieces of Eden in their possession, would have noticed glowing projections of the end of the world, and begun planning to prevent such a horror. What good was world domination if there was no _world_ to dominate?

 

“I didn't believe him at first, either,” Shaun said into the uncomfortable silence. “Now, however. . .after what he showed us. . .”

 

“Showed you?” Lucy looked from one to the other. “How?”

 

“The Animus, of course,” Shaun said, as if it was the plainest thing in the world. He caught her astonished expression in the rear view-mirror and scoffed, “Oh, come now, Lucy. With the information you've been feeding us, did you really believe Rebecca was just going to _sit_ on it? We built an Animus just so Desmond could prove he was telling the truth.”

 

At a loss, Lucy stared at the back of Shaun's head. Even after she'd denounced her affiliation to the Assassins, she'd kept in regular contact with Shaun and Rebecca; it had been part of the plan, a stroke of brilliance on Vidic's part.

 

There hadn't been any mention of them building an Animus. There hadn't been any mention of _Desmond_ , for that matter. Unsettled, she realized Desmond's kill spree through the research facility tonight had been anything but a spur of the moment decision. There had been a plan – there _was_ a plan, and no one had informed her.

 

“How long have you known?” she asked. “About me, I mean.”

 

“Months,” Desmond said.

 

“I suppose the Apple told you that, too?” She didn't quite succeed at keeping the sarcasm out of her tone of voice.

 

“Yes,” he said, and smiled. “That. . . and so much more.”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, April 8 th, 1192**

\- - -

 

Desmond spent two days in a dazed stupor. Then, he ran away.

 

He didn't quite think it through, his escape from Masyaf. He had nothing – no weapons, no possessions, no knowledge of the land surrounding the fortress. He left in the middle of the night, after waking from yet another nightmare, stealing out of the room that had been designated as his.

 

At night, Masyaf was eerily silent. Guards patrolled the hallways, in groups of two or alone. They carried no torches, knowing their way through the fortress by heart, and when they spoke, they spoke in whispers. Desmond took turns at random and hid behind potted plants when it was necessary, chancing upon the wide entrance hall by luck more than design. From there, it was relatively easy to steal into the garden he'd glimpsed on his first day, when Altaїr carried him down from the tower.

 

Searching along the wall that surrounded the garden, hoping to find an exit, Desmond tried not to think too much about Altaїr. He resented the man, deeply. Coming out of the unconsciousness brought on by his second encounter with abnormal lights, it had been Malik leaning over him, concerned, while Altaїr was staring into the Apple's glow with plain fascination. It had been Malik who wiped Desmond's face after he threw up. Only after much prodding from an increasingly angry Malik had Altaїr slipped the Apple back into a pocket.

 

At that time, Desmond had already been sliding into sleep, exhausted and sore. What he'd seen in the Apple – no, he couldn't face it. He'd watched a movie once, a copy of a copy brought into the bar by one of the patrons, some cheesy drivel about neutrons and the shifting of the earth crust, and a family in the middle of it all, trying to survive. The end of the world there had been in technicolor , pretty and exhilarating; it had been fascinating to watch and Desmond had even laughed, once or twice.

 

Now when he closed his eyes, he saw burning flesh, grotesquely misshapen corpses, heard shrill, horrible screams. He saw cities on fire, all achievements of mankind undone by an unstoppable force.

 

How did one stop the sun?

 

The Apple hadn't offered any solutions, had only shown in grizzly detail the devastating results of solar flares. Altaїr hadn't offered any solutions, either, had only reaffirmed, with ironclad certainty, his belief that it was up to Desmond to somehow avert that catastrophe.

 

Desmond was neither a scientist nor a superhero out of some comic book; even if there was some miracle solution, how was _he_ supposed to bring it about? He was a bartender, with rudimentary Assassin training.

 

Finally, he found an exit from the garden: a set of stairs hammered into stone, steep and narrow between jagged rocks. It was overgrown with shrubbery and ended in undefined darkness, but Desmond was determined and took it slow, one step at a time. Soon, he was climbing in complete blackness, relying on his sense of touch alone. It wasn't easy; two days spent lying around in a daze, a body that still felt alien to him, and he nearly slipped twice. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was aching all over and trembling with exertion.

 

Carefully, Desmond felt his way along rock, guessing he'd found a footpath that ended somewhere at the bottom of the massive stone plateau the fortress squatted on. Soon, dim light in front of him made it easier to navigate, but he slowed down as murmured conversation reached his ears.

 

The footpath ended between two tall rocks. Beyond them was another path, wider, and someone had lit a small fire at the edge of it. Peering out from his hiding place, Desmond counted three men in white Assassin garb, their hoods up, swords belted at their sides and bows on their backs.

 

Path guards. The narrow footpath led from the fortress garden directly to the winding road leading from the valley to Masyaf's entrance. An old escape route, perhaps – Desmond didn't know and at the moment didn't care, far more interested in finding a way to avoid being noticed _and_ getting around the guards.

 

Luck was with him. Two of the men rose from their seats around the fire, disappearing toward the fortress. The third busied himself with clearing away the remains of a meal. Desmond waited until that man's back was turned and then darted, as quickly and as silently as was possible, out from behind the tall rocks and down the trampled dirt road.

 

For once, he didn't mind being small. It made hiding that much easier. Every bush, every rock was now enough to conceal him.

 

He reached the end of the dirt road, successfully avoiding detection by two more patrols. Before him lay the valley, silent under the cover of night, white and black under the sliver of moon. Most of the flat huts were dark, their occupants sleeping; here and there, Desmond heard the rustle of animals in their sheds and behind crude wooden fences, but the sheep and cattle paid no attention to him as he ran past.

 

He passed the last hut at the edge of the small village. The night was cool, but Desmond didn't feel it, sweating and breathing hard by the time he reached the edge of the river, hiding in a cluster of thorny bushes there. Legs as short as his weren't made for long-distance running, he reflected with half-sour amusement, catching his breath while he looked at the deceptively tranquil water.

 

The river originated somewhere in the mountains behind Masyaf and meandered through the valley. Two small boats were tethered to a rock a little further downstream, half on the river bank.

 

Some poor fisherman or trader was going to miss their boat, come morning. At the moment, however, Desmond felt he was more than entitled to make use of whatever he found, to aid him. These people meant nothing to him.

 

He stepped out from between the bushes.

 

“Almost,” a voice said, behind him.

 

Desmond whirled around. Altaїr rose out of the darkness like a ghost, his black robe making him nearly invisible. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hood was up; what little of the man's expression Desmond could make out showed scarred lips twisted in a smug grin.

 

“I was waiting for you to do something like this,” Altaїr said after a moment. “I must say, I'm impressed: not many would manage to evade the path guards' notice.”

 

“Then you need better guards,” Desmond snapped. Angrily, he turned and headed for the boats.

 

Altaїr followed a few paces behind him. “You _do_ realize what you're doing is folly? This river leads into the desert – there's nothing there but a slow and painful death, either by thirst or wild animals. And even if you, by some miracle, make it to the nearest city, a dangerous trek even on horseback with sufficient water and food, what will you do there?”

 

Desmond pretended not to hear the commentary. He was angry with himself; he'd meant to make a silent, unnoticed escape, but apparently every step he'd taken tonight had been anticipated by the man walking behind him now. At the very least, Altaїr surely didn't have to be so damnably _smug_ about thwarting him.

 

He reached the boats. They were little more than walnut shells, in debatable repair. One had a shallow layer of water at its bottom, stinking of fish. Desmond stared at that water, disappointment welling up.

 

“Shall I help you into it?” Altaїr asked.

 

“Shut up,” Desmond murmured.

 

He'd never felt more helpless, more useless in his entire life than he did now. Altaїr was right, he _hadn't_ thought this through. He'd only wanted to get away. Even his flight from the Farm, all those years ago – or all those years into the future, come to think of it – had had more planning behind it.

 

A hand descended on his shoulder, turning him around. Desmond didn't protest when he was lifted, staring morosely into the shadows under the hood. The smug grin was gone, but Desmond suddenly despised those ever-present shadows. He reached up and pushed the heavy fabric back, wanting to see Altaїr's face.

 

“I hate you,” he said.

 

“That's all right,” Altaїr said. “I'm used to that.”

 

The walk back to the fortress was long and silent. Desmond expected Altaїr to indulge in another display of stunning acrobatics, but they took the more conventional route up the dirt road, past path guards who looked more than a little surprised to see them. Altaїr didn't stop to make conversation, only greeting the men shortly before moving on.

 

Halfway up to the fortress, Desmond gave in to fatigue, slumping against Altaїr's shoulder. The thought of being carried around like a doll grated, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to give two shits about appearances.

 

“Why do you even care?” Desmond asked tiredly, when they passed the massive gates guarding Masyaf's courtyard. “It's going to happen almost a thousand years from now. You'll be long dead by then.”

 

“I don't much care about the fate of mankind as a whole,” Altaїr said, heading for a side entrance to the fortress. “Most people go to their deaths blind and deaf to the forces that move the world around them. They're. . . _cattle_ , content to graze, with no care for who shepherds them as long as there is enough grass.”

 

Desmond frowned. “That's an arrogant way of looking at things.”

 

“Am I wrong, though?” Altaїr challenged. “Even now, the Templars spin their webs, and _we_ are the only ones capable of stopping them. That's why I care.”

 

Desmond had had similar conversations with his father, and he remembered them turning into arguments and later, when Desmond approached his sixteenth birthday, heated verbal fights. He loved his father, but William Miles was a conspiracy nut, and as the _de facto_ leader of the Assassins his views had heavily influenced not only Desmond's childhood, but the lives of everyone on the Farm. The result had been an atmosphere of claustrophobia and mistrust toward everything, including such mundane things as television, newspapers and everyone who worked for or with the government.

 

Desmond believed in the existence of the Templars well enough, having seen too many corpses as a child, mothers and fathers brought home in coffins to hysterical, grieving children, and sometimes not brought home at all. He believed that a war had been raging for centuries, between Templars and Assassins – enough so that even after leaving the Farm, he'd kept a very low profile, his father's ominous warnings about what the Templars would do to him if they ever caught him echoing into Desmond's daily routines.

 

But world domination? A global conspiracy, conveniently overlooked by everyone but the Assassins?

 

“But. . . the solar flares. The end of the world.” Desmond sat up, leaning away from Altaїr so he could look at him properly. “If what the Apple showed me is true, the Templars are going to die like everyone else. What am _I_ supposed to do about that?”

 

“The Apple didn't show you everything,” Altaїr said ominously. He hesitated, looking troubled for a moment, and added, “I didn't expect you to be quite so young. Gazing into the Apple has. . . effects upon the body as well as the mind. I'm not quite sure to how much I can expose you without causing real damage.”

 

“Gee,” Desmond said, deadpan. “Thanks for the concern. And the trip through time and space. And the throwing up after the light show. And let's not forget the whole shrinking business.”

 

Altaїr's lips twitched. “On the other hand, you seem to be holding up just fine.”

 

Desmond looked away, angry again. He was holding up because he had no other choice, and that was squarely Altaїr's doing. The arrogant ass hadn't even apologized once, for putting Desmond through all of this. A little light banter wasn't going to change the fact that deep down, he resented Altaїr, more than he could put into words. At the Farm, there had at least been the _chance_ of getting out. Here, he was truly, utterly stuck.

 

Perhaps recognizing Desmond's mood change, Altaїr continued into the fortress, their conversation at an end for now. Desmond wasn't surprised when their route took them to the chambers Altaїr appeared to be sharing with Malik as a sort of communal living space, not the smaller, more modest room he had been given.

 

Malik wasn't there, at the moment – not surprising, considering it was the middle of the night. One of the windows was open, letting in cool air, and a plate containing the remnants of a meal sat on the windowsill. The scent of food reminded Desmond that he hadn't really eaten anything recently. What did they eat in the Middle East, anyway? Probably no pork, if the frequent mentions of 'Allah', from the guards at least, were any indication.

 

“I don't suppose there's a McDonald's around the corner somewhere?” Desmond asked, half-serious.

 

Altaїr gave him a strange look, setting him down. “What is that?”

 

“Never mind.” Looking around, Desmond sighed. A set of pillows against one wall invited him to sit, and he did so wearily. “All right. What is it that you want from me?”

 

Altaїr took off the black robe, draping it over the back of a chair, and toed off his boots. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands dangling between his knees, displaying a slump to his shoulders that was a little startling.

 

“I was going to train you, to prepare you,” Altaїr said. “But you are too small for that.”

 

“That's hardly my fault.”

 

Altaїr held up a hand, palm out. “I'm not saying it is. The Apple. . . has a mind of its own, sometimes. I suppose I can consider myself lucky you arrived here with the mind of an adult, even if your body is that of a child.”

 

“'Lucky'.” Desmond snorted. “I suppose I can consider myself lucky I didn't arrive here in pieces.”

 

Altaїr lifted an eyebrow. “I suppose, though I doubt you'd be in a state fit to complain about it, then.”

 

Desmond glared. Somehow, he got the feeling that Altaїr thought it _was_ his fault, this 'state' he was in.

 

“Now I think I'm going to have to raise you,” Altaїr continued, ignoring the glare.

 

“I am an adult,” Desmond pointed out, testily. “I don't need -”

 

“ _Are_ you?” Altaїr was suddenly staring at him, the slump to his shoulders gone, his eyes narrowed. “You ran away in the middle of the night, without a weapon, without provisions, with no plan and no idea what's out there. I told you how important you are – the Apple _showed_ you what will happen – and you _ran away_. That's hardly the way an adult acts, wouldn't you agree?”

 

Shocked into mute disbelief by the harsh words and their implications, Desmond gaped at Altaїr. An ugly emotion twisted inside him, anger, cold and focused, but there was also shame, laced viciously through it all. It was the truth – Desmond had literally no idea what was out there. That didn't mean he had to quietly accept everything that had happened to him over the last days.

 

“Fuck you,” he bit out savagely, rising from the pillow. He was so angry he was shaking. “You have no right to judge me. You're not my father. Send me back, if you're that fucking unhappy with _who I am_. Pick someone else, fuck someone else over!”

 

“There _is_ no one else!” Altaїr shouted, suddenly rigid with anger.

 

Whatever small, mean measure of satisfaction Desmond felt at witnessing the other man lose his temper turned into a sense of alarm as Altaїr rose, heading for one of the bookshelves. Desmond was already edging toward the door when Altaїr turned, a familiar, dully golden ball gripped in one white-knuckled hand.

 

“No,” Desmond said, alarm quickly replaced by fear. He didn't want to see any more horrible visions about the future. “Don't you dare -”

 

The Apple _hummed_ in Altaїr's grip, as if it was eager. It was the last sound Desmond heard before the golden glow filled the room.

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, April 12 th, 1192**

\- - -

 

He woke to a strange half-light and a wet, sticky membrane covering his face. For an agonizing moment, he didn't know who he was, what he was. He clawed at his face with appendages he couldn't name, ripping the membrane away. It came off easily enough, but it felt as though his skin came off with it, and Desmond – that was his name! Desmond – rolled over and threw up.

 

After, he felt worse. His throat hurt, his stomach was in turmoil. His head felt as though it had been packed in cotton. Weakly, he crawled away from the puddle of vomit, curling up on his side.

 

Something moist and cool was wiped over his mouth and chin. Desmond groaned, wanting to be left alone.

 

“I hope you're happy,” someone said. “Might I make a suggestion? Next time you feel the pressing need to almost murder your descendant, simply stab him.”

 

The voice sounded familiar, but Desmond couldn't put a name to it. He couldn't put a name to much of anything, at the moment, his mind curiously numbed.

 

“Leave us,” another voice commanded. Then, in a softer voice, “Please.”

 

There was a snort. A door opened and shut. Someone sighed.

 

Desmond drifted for a while, gradually becoming aware of being semi-upright. A deep drum sounded in his ear, muted and dull. It was soothing in its regularity, hypnotizing. The longer he listened, the calmer he seemed to become, ache and queasiness receding. In their stead, memory returned: a woman's voice, booming at him across a divide of aeons, harsh and precise. Images of fire and blood and a tale of the beginning of the world. It hadn't been a pretty tale.

 

He didn't want to think about that now, or about the woman. Women. Toward the end of it, drowning in a sea of liquid gold, Desmond was certain there had been more than one voice.

 

Someone touched his brow, his cheek. The fingers were warm and rough, and they settled on the side of his throat, over his pulse. Desmond couldn't summon the strength to push them away. He had a fairly good idea whose fingers that were, but even the deep resentment he'd felt earlier was a shade or two removed, indistinct and meaningless.

 

Eventually, Desmond opened his eyes. He lay with his ear against Altaїr's chest, a position eerily reminiscent of their first meeting, but there was no panic, this time. Desmond guessed he'd gone through panic and come out the other side, by now, left with a feeling of tired acceptance.

 

It felt nice, to be held like this. Human contact wasn't something he'd indulged in very often. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had put their arms around him.

 

“I'm sorry,” Altaїr said, sounding awkward. He probably wasn't used to having to apologize for his actions. “I lost control of my temper, and. . . I'm sorry. It will not happen again.”

 

Desmond very much doubted that, but what use was there in pointing it out? He shifted a little, and Altaїr's hand settled on his back, stroking small circles.

 

“How much did you see?” Altaїr asked after a minute or so.

 

“Enough.” Desmond's voice didn't quite seem to want to work, coming out as a whisper.

 

He didn't want to talk about it, didn't even want to think about it; the knowledge was there, buried deeply into his mind, waiting to be sifted through, sampled, put to use, but still it felt as though a layer of numbness prevented him from truly grasping everything. Some mechanism of self-preservation, perhaps. Whatever it was, Desmond was beyond grateful it was there.

 

He sat up slowly, Altaїr's hand supporting his back. They were on a windowsill, Altaїr sitting with his knees drawn up, Desmond wedged into the curl of his body. Warm sunlight fell through the window, making Desmond squint against the brightness as he looked around at the familiar room, which looked tidier now, the heaps of clothing in the corners gone.

 

Altaїr looked like he hadn't slept in days, his jaw and chin dark with unshaven stubble. Suspicious, Desmond asked, “How long as I out?”

 

“Three days.” Leaning his head against the wall, Altaїr watched him through half-lidded eyes. “If it's any consolation, Malik spent all three of them calling me just about any name under the sun.”

 

Three days. Desmond rubbed both hands over his face, cringing when he smelled his own breath. His hair felt stiff with sweat. He wanted a shower. Failing that, he wanted to soak in a tub of hot water, and something to brush his teeth with. Food. Something to drink.

 

Most of all, he still wanted to get out, somehow. That feeling wasn't going to go away anytime soon, if ever. What the Apple had shown him – what the women had said to him – went above and beyond everything his father had ever told him. Half of it still sounded too fantastical to believe, especially considering his own, prominent spot in it. The other half plainly contradicted everything written in history books.

 

“I'm not sure I can do this.” Desmond dropped his hands to Altaїr's belly, picking at the cloth. “I'm no one special. I don't even know where to begin.”

 

Altaїr made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat.

 

“I always thought my dad was a nutcase, but now. . . ” Desmond trailed off, guilt gnawing at him unexpectedly. His father had been _right_ – but there was so much more to it than theories about a conspiracy and plans for world domination. William Miles would probably go into conniptions, hearing just half of what Desmond knew, now. “I don't know. I need some time.” He leveled a halfhearted glare at Altaїr. “Next time you want to show me something, ask.”

 

“There won't be a next time,” Altaїr said quickly. Just as quickly, he added, “I will ask.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Desmond said, meaning it. “I can't take much more of this. This,” he pointed at himself, “is bad enough, I haven't even begun to deal with this, or this,” he waved at the window, the room, “and I really don't want to wake up again wondering who I am. Or worse, _what_ I am.”

 

Somber-faced, Altaїr nodded. “I will keep that in mind.”

 

A moment of almost-companionable silence passed between them. Soon, however, Desmond began to feel restless. The feeling of sickness had passed; he felt more awake now than he ever had before.

 

“So,” he asked, “where do I start?”

 

“With a bath, I would say.” Altaїr grinned lopsidedly. “You stink.”

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 12 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

“Hold on,” Lucy said. “How long _did_ you stay in Masyaf?”

 

They were driving along a road Lucy wasn't familiar with, headed away from the city. Misgivings about the truth of Desmond's story aside, she'd listened attentively; even if it wasn't the truth, it was one hell of a tale. Shaun, who usually peppered anything about the past with commentary, hadn't interrupted once.

 

Desmond stretched against the backseat. “Sixteen years.” He sounded wistful. He'd spent most of the time staring out of the window, as if he was imagining the very things he was telling her. “I wasn't kidding when I said Altaїr raised me.”

 

Lucy glanced at Shaun, who caught it in the rear view-mirror and nodded. “That scene he was just describing was one of the first we saw in the Animus. He's telling the truth, Lucy. DNA doesn't lie.”

 

Sixteen years. Baffled, Lucy realized that eventually, Abstergo's Animus sessions might have gotten to the point where a small Desmond Miles met his ancestor Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad under quite unforeseen circumstances. She could only imagine what Vidic's reaction might have been. As it was, she could scarcely categorize her own reaction. Stark disbelief, still, but she was also fascinated.

 

Lucy wasn't much of a historian. Certainly, even a backseat view of history, unfiltered and unchanged, was breathtaking, but to _live_ back then. . .

 

No wonder, then, how Desmond had managed tonight's overtaking of the research facility without outside help. He'd been trained by one of the greatest Master Assassins of all times. He probably knew techniques that had long since been forgotten, learning from the very man who'd invented them, and for _sixteen years_. He'd _let_ Abstergo take him, confident in his skill to not only escape, but also to decimate his abductors.

 

She'd been unimpressed when Abstergo guards dragged Desmond into the Animus chamber, the first time. The data collected on him was by no means complete, but Lucy remembered thinking that Desmond's only real selling point was the simple fact that he was a descendant of Altaїr. There were others – the Miles family tree boasted an astonishing number of influential Assassins, according to numerous sources – but Vidic had cared only about Altaїr and the Piece of Eden supposedly in Altaїr's possession.

 

That Desmond was the son of the Assassins current leader had only been the cherry on top, a little 'fuck you' to William Miles.

 

Lucy almost grinned with satisfaction. Everything William had wanted Desmond to be, undone when narrow-mindedness and William's special brand of compassion drove Desmond into running away as a teenager. . . Desmond was all that. But it hadn't been William's doing.

 

She wished she'd been there to witness the reunion between father and son.

 

“Not to ruin the moment with trivialities,” Shaun said, “but we're getting close to the airfield.”

 

Desmond sat up straighter, unrolling the black cloth that had been over Lucy's head. She didn't protest or struggle, letting him put it on her again. She hated not being able to see, but an airfield meant airplanes, and that meant they were going somewhere. The hood meant they were taking her with them, not killing her.

 

“Will you tell me more?” she asked, once the hood was situated.

 

Desmond laughed under his breath. “First you say I'm insane, now you want to hear more?”

 

“I've changed my mind. Besides, it's not good manners, leaving me hanging like this. You started it. Now I want to hear everything.”

 

Lucy didn't bother to keep the eagerness out of her voice. Every moment he spent talking with her was a moment longer they spent bonding, whether he realized it or not. Lucy wasn't going to lie to herself: she knew she was on borrowed time, for now. Still, she hadn't been executed yet. As long as there wasn't a gun held to her head or a knife at her throat, she was going to cling to the faint hope that she was going to make it out alive.

 

“Very well,” Desmond said, after a moment's thoughtful silence. He snorted lightly. “It'll certainly beat talking to my father.”

 

The car rolled to a stop. Doors were opened, and Lucy heard plane engines somewhere in the distance. She couldn't tell if it was Shaun or Desmond who pulled her out of the car, but she offered no resistance, despite the disorientation that set in almost immediately. Voices reached her covered ears, muffled, along with the sounds of more cars being parked.

 

She was led forward, a hand between her shoulder blades directing her.

 

“Stairs. Lift your feet.”

 

Neither Shaun nor Desmond: Rebecca. Lucy lifted her feet as instructed, walking a little awkwardly until a hand at the back of her head made her duck. The ground beneath her boots was vibrating. They were inside a plane now, and Rebecca pushed her gently forward until Lucy bumped into something soft, upholstery.

 

“Sit down.”

 

Lucy sat. The hood was taken off again, and she blinked against the artificial light. It was a small plane, offering space for maybe ten people. Some of the seats had been taken out, replaced by sturdy, narrow tables bolted into the airplane walls. Computers, printers, scanners and other equipment sat neatly on those tables, waiting to be put to use. It was more than a plane. It was an airborne command center.

 

Lucy glanced up at the woman standing before her. “Nice.”

 

Rebecca Crane, hair a little longer than Lucy remembered, but still wearing one of those awful one-piece jumpsuits, oversized headphones around her neck, threw the hood into Lucy's lap and slapped her.

 

“Becca,” Shaun admonished. He stood near the entry hatch, a laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Behind him stood Desmond, frowning.

 

“I don't even want to look at you,” Rebecca said. She glared down at Lucy, a look full of anger. “We trusted you, you _bitch_.”

 

Lucy tasted blood. She'd cut the inside of her cheek against a tooth, and her cheek felt hot and swollen from the force of Rebecca's slap. She'd had worse. “I trusted William Miles.”

 

Rebecca turned and stomped to the front of the plane, throwing herself into a seat. A moment later, muffled music could be heard, but it was quickly drowned out by the roar of the engines.

 

Shaun exchanged a look with Desmond, who shrugged. Other people were boarding the plane now, some still wearing their hoods drawn deeply into their faces. They kept to the front of the plane, taking seats near Rebecca, as if sitting near to a Templar, a fallen Assassin, was somehow contagious.

 

Only Shaun and Desmond joined Lucy in the back of the plane, Shaun busying himself with unpacking his bag while Desmond took the two seat across from Lucy's. He sat sideways, his back to the small bull's eye window, his feet up on the second seat, and after a moment Lucy did the same. It was far more comfortable than sitting with her hands pressing against the seat behind her.

 

Desmond eyed her curiously. “Hurt?”

 

“Only my pride.” Lucy felt for the cut in her cheek with her tongue-tip. It had already stopped bleeding. “Look, I realize I'm not in a position to ask any favors, but could you maybe cuff me in the front? My hands are going numb.”

 

Desmond cocked his head, obviously considering her request. Shaun offered no comment. Then Desmond shrugged. “All right.”

 

He climbed out of his seat, his hidden blade snapping out of his left sleeve, and Lucy leaned forward obligingly, brow on her knees. She hadn't lied, her hands _were_ going numb. Still, she was a little surprised when, after cutting through the plastic binders around her wrists, Desmond sat back down without bothering with other restraints.

 

She rubbed her wrists, glancing over the top of the seat before her into the front of the plane. Almost everyone had turned in their seat and was staring at her.

 

“She's in an airplane full of Assassins,” Desmond said, raising his voice. “Fucking _relax_ , guys. What can she possibly do?”

 

“Oh, I don't know – how about making us crash into the ocean?” Shaun took a seat at the bolted table nearest to them. He looked a little tense again, Lucy noticed, but whether it was because her hands were free now or because of Desmond's apparent unconcern she couldn't say. “She said it herself – things change. Maybe she's going to attempt to kill us all, heroically sacrificing herself in misguided martyrdom. Hm, Lucy?”

 

She wasn't going to dignify that with an answer. Martyrdom was something an Assassin would see as a glorious last-stand option. It was part of the chaos they revered, where nothing was true and everything was permitted, but so little made _sense_. The Templars stood for order in all things, and the preservation of life, even by unconventional means.

 

When neither Lucy nor Desmond answered him, Shaun threw his hands up and turned to his laptop, muttering under his breath.

 

“William isn't on the plane,” Lucy remarked, when the plane started rolling.

 

“I was under the impression you don't much care for his company.” Desmond was twirling the remains of the plastic binders in his right hand. He hadn't retracted the hidden blade yet.

 

“Do _you_?” She arched an eyebrow.

 

The hidden blade disappeared back into Desmond's sleeve with its chilling, familiar snap of metal. Lucy guessed she'd hit a nerve there – Desmond's expression was closed off, and he was staring at the plastic binder, his brow creased.

 

She had to be careful, now. Playing son against father was an enticing idea, but it could just as easily backfire on her. Currently, that was not a risk she was willing to take, but it was something she was going to keep in mind.

 

“I'm sorry,” she offered. “It's none of my business.”

 

Desmond relaxed marginally, though his eyes were narrowed when he looked at her. “Want to hear more?”

 

It was a blatant attempt to change the topic. Lucy nodded. “Yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now. The stage is set, and the pace should be picking up from here on out. For the record, I am really, really fond of Lucy. She's one of the games' most interesting characters, to me.


	3. THREE

_**Chapter THREE** _

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, April 16 th, 1192**

\- - -

 

Working as a bartender, Desmond had met many types of people: the kind that just wanted a quiet drink after a hard day's work, the kind that drank themselves into a stupor on principle, because it was 'fun', because the life they lived desperately needed an escape route, because they had money to spare or no money at all, because they were bored; there had been the regulars, who came in every day and knew each bartender by name; there had been the new faces, who sometimes turned into regulars or never turned up again at all.

 

There had been a small group of university students who came in every Friday. They'd been kind of all right, in the way students sometimes were, not too boisterous, not too loud but not quiet, either; the guys bright-eyed and eager for a weekend spent partying, the girls classy; all of them smart as whips.

 

Over time and a few conversations, Desmond had learned they all studied history at the NYU. He remembered one guy in particular, mostly because one Friday he'd turned up early in a _kilt_ , a little drunk already, and spent half an hour at the bar, lecturing Desmond about the glorious past, and how everything today sucked in comparison to how it had been, 'back then'.

 

Desmond didn't remember kilt-guy's name anymore, but he wanted to trade places with him, just to show him how much 'back then' _sucked_. He doubted kilt-guy would continue spouting his nonsense after a week spent shitting into a hole in the ground and developing a rash on his ass because 'toilets' hadn't been invented yet.

 

Or hearing of a man in the village succumbing to a putrefying flesh wound after an accident, because there were no antibiotics and no penicillin, and 'wound care' often meant 'saw, needle and thread, and by the way, you're going to be conscious through most of it', because there were no real anesthetics, either.

 

Or learning that a trio of Assassins would never return again, because their heads now decorated stakes in Acre, their bodies food for crows and wild dogs, cats and rats.

 

No. The past wasn't all that great. It was terrifying, mostly, and the parts that weren't terrifying were either dirty, or deadly, or a mix of both.

 

Masyaf was a city unto itself, and once Desmond had recovered from Altaїr's antics with the Apple and a tailor had come, gone and returned with clothes that fit and a pair of sandals, he'd been given free reign to explore.

 

More or less. For the first week, he'd been restricted to the fortress itself, and only the inside of it. He was still acclimatizing and needed to take it slow, Altaїr claimed, but Desmond thought that had more to do with Altaїr's suspicion that he'd make another attempt to flee.

 

Desmond was done with running away. He wasn't _happy_ about being stuck in Masyaf, and still spent the first ten minutes every morning fervently wishing to be back home, in his own time. Deep down, however, he was a pragmatist: he was here. He might as well deal with it.

 

Even if he _hated_ it, at times.

 

There was so much to take in. There was so much to learn. He'd been prepared for a culture shock once Altaїr gave him the green light to wander about, but not so _much_ of it.

 

Animals had to be slaughtered first for there to be meat, and he'd never have guessed how hard it was to light a fire with flint and tinder. Desmond had never truly bothered to think about where food came from, he'd just bought it. He'd never considered the manufacturing processes involved in making clothes or furniture, or something as simple as candles. There were so many things he'd taken for granted, like flipping a switch to have light, or going to a convenience store for food and to the mall for clothes.

 

Toward the end of that first week, he was overwhelmed. He spent the days exploring the nooks and crannies of Masyaf, but often he simply stood somewhere out of the way and watched the people and what they were doing, how they were doing it.

 

He wondered why everyone spoke English and asked Malik, who gave him a funny look and told him they didn't: it was Desmond who spoke Arabic, albeit with a strange accent. Which didn't explain the gibberish phrase - La shay' haqiqah, koulo shay' moumkin – Altaїr had said to him. Had _that_ been in English, then, and Desmond's brain had somehow translated. . . ?

 

“Don't think too much about it,” Malik advised, when Desmond groaned, trying to figure _that_ one out. “I find it best not to look to deeply into what the Apple does.”

 

They were in one of Masyaf's numerous libraries. Malik sat in an ornately carved chair behind a wide desk, almost entombed between high stacks of parchment and books. He had been reading when Desmond found him, but laid the book aside and watched with amusement how Desmond pushed a second chair up to the desk and then spent a minute climbing into it.

 

Desmond hadn't yet figured out what position, exactly, Malik held in Masyaf, other than being a friend of Altaїr's. A close friend, at that, as they spent most evenings together, discussing topics that concerned the running of Masyaf and the order. On the other hand, Malik didn't attend the meetings that had been taking up most of Altaїr's time over the week.

 

At first, Desmond had been almost intimidated by Malik. He had a sharp-edged tongue and no reservations to apply it to Altaїr, who sometimes tended to end arguments with 'because I'm the Mentor and I _say so_ ', which inevitably ended with Malik leaving in a huff. He seemed to have been an Assassin, once upon a time, but wore no hidden blade, only a long sword and an impressive dagger.

 

There was the matter of Malik's missing left arm. Desmond didn't quite know how to bring that up without being politically incorrect, though he was curious. Malik was also deeply suspicious of anything concerning the Apple of Eden and didn't bother to hide it.

 

“Altaїr puts too much stock in that thing,” Malik continued. “He was smart enough to anticipate that a different language would pose a problem, but he probably wasn't specific enough when he asked the Apple to bring you here.”

 

“Don't I know it,” Desmond muttered, carefully balancing a large cup in both hands. Malik had given him tea, which appeared to be the beverage of choice around here, along with water and fruit juice. God, he wanted a cold beer, or even just a coke. “How did he end up with it, anyway?”

 

Malik pursed his lips. “He hasn't told you?”

 

“I haven't asked.” Partially because Desmond was afraid Altaїr would use the Apple to _show_ him. “He did say he was going to tell me some things, but I think he's a little too busy at the moment, what with the meetings and all.”

 

“And the Apple didn't show you, either? When he used it?”

 

“No.” Desmond sketched a meaningless shape into the air, nearly dropping the cup. “Fire and brimstone and the end of the world, along with a great deal of stuff that'd make the historians of my time scream their heads off, but nothing about you guys, really.”

 

Malik was quiet for a long time, gray eyes looking _through_ Desmond. Finally, he said, “I see,” and left it at that, turning back to his paperwork.

 

Their conversation, it seemed, was at an end.

 

\- - -

 

That night, Desmond returned to the room they took their evening meal in, to find Altaїr and Malik already there. Sensing something was off, he peered around the half-open door. They stood facing each other and Desmond, after one look at their body language, took a step back, glad he hadn't just barged in.

 

“What else haven't you told him?” Malik was asking, in a tone of voice that could have curdled fresh milk. “Are you so ashamed that -”

 

“It's not shame,” Altaїr bit out. “How can you even think that?”

 

Malik's reply was scathing, cold. “Because I know you.”

 

Desmond turned and walked away as quietly as possible, unsure if they'd even noticed his presence.

 

His path took him back to Masyaf's grand entrance hall, cool and shadowed now that the sun was no longer shining through the tall windows and the main doors had been locked for the night. On a whim, Desmond stepped into the garden, which served as a kind of secondary courtyard during the day. Now, it was as empty as the grand hall. A mild breeze ruffled his hair, carrying the scent of trees and earth. He was hungry and tired, but whatever was happening between Altaїr and Malik upstairs was none of his business and he didn't want to get caught up in it.

 

His slow stroll brought him toward the rear of the garden, close to the narrow stone stairs he'd used as a means of escape. This time, Desmond ignored them, slowly setting one foot before the other to pass the time. He'd wait a while, and then return, to a hopefully resolved argument.

 

It wasn't long before he felt eyes on him.

 

It was the guard Desmond had met on his first day in Masyaf, Abbas. This time, he was alone, standing in the open doorway that led into the garden. Desmond noted Abbas was armed – hardly surprising, considering this was an Assassin base – but what really caught his attention was the way the man was looking at him. It wasn't quite malicious intent that shone in Abbas' eyes, but close, and Desmond warily turned to face him.

 

Abbas lingered in the doorway, looking around once. “Hello, little one.”

 

Desmond reminded himself that no one in Masyaf, Altaїr and Malik aside, knew his true age. To everyone else, he was a little boy, three or four years old, which meant he had to _behave_ like one unless he wanted to draw attention. So far, he'd avoided that by just not making conversation.

 

He settled for a gormless smile, swallowing a scathing reply. The story Altaїr had cooked up to explain Desmond's existence was that a woman named Adha, with whom Altaїr had had some kind of business a few years ago, had come away pregnant from the encounter and given birth to him in secret. Only recently had Altaїr learned of his 'son' and retrieved him, while Adha had meanwhile succumbed to illness.

 

It was a weak story, in Desmond's opinion, but it was probably better than telling everyone he was from the future. Altaїr's description of what awaited people suspected of sorcery, especially in remote regions, had been graphic.

 

“I'm Abbas,” Abbas said, slowly crossing the space between them. “Do you remember me?”

 

Desmond nodded again. He itched to pick up one of the rocks he saw lying in a small pile a few feet away, just to have something to defend himself with if he had to. He hadn't forgotten the hostility he'd sensed from Abbas, at their first meeting.

 

“Your father must be busy, to let you wander about all alone.” Abbas was less than ten feet away now, still advancing slowly. “Aren't you afraid?”

 

Desmond shook his head and said, in what he could only hope was a convincing child's way of speaking, “'m a big boy.”

 

“Yes. . . yes, you are.”

 

Abbas towered over him now, wearing a smile Desmond instinctively knew was false. _Everything_ about the man felt wrong, on levels Desmond couldn't explain. Tension crawling along his spine, he looked up.

 

“I bet you have many toys,” Abbas said.

 

Desmond nodded. He had none – would feel more than just a little insulted if Altaїr ever presented him with any, unless they were of the sharp, bladed kind. Where was this line of questioning going? Why would Abbas care if Desmond had toys or not?

 

“I had none, as a child,” Abbas said. “My father died when I was little, and there was no one to give me any.” He crouched down, bringing their faces to the same level. “What kind of toys?” He winked. “Dolls?”

 

“I'm not a girl,” Desmond pointed out, primly, stalling. He didn't have a frigging clue what kind of toys children in these parts, in this _time_ , had, if they had any at all.

 

“Swords, then? Small, wooden ones?” Abbas' grin widened. “No?”

 

“Balls!” Desmond blurted, recalling watching a few of the peasant children kick around something vaguely ball-shaped, a few days ago, from one of the windows.

 

Abbas made a sound in the back of this throat that sounded like a satisfied purr. “Gold ones?”

 

What the _hell_?

 

“Your father has one,” Abbas continued when Desmond didn't answer. “It's pretty. I've seen it. Has he shown it to you?”

 

Mutely, Desmond shook his head.

 

“Pity.” Abbas rocked back on his heels. “You should ask him about it. . . maybe he'll let you play with -”

 

Wet warmth sprayed into Desmond's face, causing him to flinch and squeeze his eyes shut, thinking for a moment that Abbas had spat at him. He reared back, his heel catching on something and landing him on his butt in the grass, his arms raised in a protective barrier in front of him. But no attack came. Carefully, he opened his eyes.

 

The tip of a blade protruded from the front of Abbas' throat, the metal streaked with red and black, curly beard hairs. Abbas' mouth was open, emitting a choking, gurgling sound as blood welled over his lips. He was twitching all over, a jerky, uncontrolled motion, like a puppet on strings.

 

Desmond looked up.

 

Altaїr stood behind Abbas, face devoid of all expression, blank. Only his eyes were alive, blazing with cold fury and murderous intent. He drew his arm back, Abbas' slackening body sagging forward as the blade slid free, and caught the dying man's head in both hands.

 

The 'crack' of Abbas' spine snapping under a vicious twisting motion seemed abnormally loud in the deserted garden. Without a word, without a glance at Desmond, Altaїr grabbed the corpse under the arms and dragged him toward the entrance to the garden, out of sight.

 

Shocked, wide-eyed and only now realizing it was blood dripping off his jaw and chin, Desmond stared at the shadows beyond the entrance.

 

Altaїr returned within moments, striding toward him. Desmond couldn't even begin to formulate a reaction. It was all happening too fast. He was lifted none-too-gently, Altaїr's hand cupping his head and pushing Desmond's face against one black-clad shoulder. Horrified, Desmond thought Altaїr meant to suffocate him, and struggled wildly, gripped by icy fear. The blunt metal base of Altaїr's hidden blade was pressing against the back of his neck, and all it would take was _one_ flick of the hand to release razor-sharp metal into the back of Desmond's skull.

 

“Ssh.”

 

The sibilant hiss close to his ear and the way Altaїr held him did nothing to quell that fear. He smelled metal, sweat, barely able to breathe with his mouth pressed against Altaїr's shoulder; he heard his own voice, muffled, producing sounds _far_ too close to terrified whimpers, and he couldn't _stop_ them. They were moving – Altaїr was, at any rate, and fuck, the man's breath wasn't even going any faster than usual.

 

Desmond had never seen another human being die right in front of him.

 

On television, yes; in movies and on computer screens, but there it was abstract, safe: a story told by actors and in pixels. He had seen corpses, at the Farm and in New York, victims of car accidents, street fights, plain and simple murder.

 

But he had never felt someone's warm blood on his skin.

 

Altaїr slowed down. A door shut behind them, and finally the hard grip on Desmond's head eased, and he was set down. They were back in their familiar room. Malik wasn't there. His knees felt like jello. He stared at his hands, streaked with drying blood.

 

Altaїr knelt in front of him and took him by the shoulders, giving him a slight shake. “Has anyone else asked you about the Apple?”

 

Desmond shook his head.

 

“Are you certain?” Altaїr pressed.

 

“Y-yes.” Desmond was slowly regaining control over his voice. His heart was still hammering, but it was the shock over what had come after Abbas' death that caused it, that moment when he'd thought Altaїr's next target was going to be _him_. Rationally, Desmond knew he was surrounded by Assassins – had been trained as one himself, at the Farm – his _father_ had probably killed countless people in his long career.

 

“Fuck, man,” he whispered. “You just killed another _Assassin_.”

 

Altaїr snorted, his hands dropping from Desmond's shoulders. He sat back on his heels and looked at him intently. “And why not?”

 

“Because. . .”

 

Desmond trailed off, suddenly grasping for good reasons. Why not? He hadn't felt comfortable around Abbas at all, because he'd been in a completely defenseless position – which wasn't all of it, but it had been the most obvious element to that encounter. A real child might not have been as intimidated or worried, perhaps. A real child might even have freely told Abbas all about 'golden balls' their 'father' kept around, revealing things in the way children, innocent rather than clueless, sometimes did.

 

Clearly, Abbas' intentions hadn't been sound. Altaїr had only taken the logical step necessary to remove a threat – no matter that Abbas hadn't raised a hand against Desmond. Not _yet_.

 

If an ally turned into an enemy, why, indeed, not kill them?

 

Altaїr tugged gently at Desmond's tunic, then rose to his feet, stepping away. “Take that off. It needs to be washed.”

 

Desmond looked down at his chest, discovering his face wasn't the only part of him that had gotten in the way of arterial spray. Hastily, he struggled out of the tunic.

 

“The Creed,” Altaїr said, heading for a table in the corner, “commands us to stay our blades from the flesh of innocents. It says nothing to keep us from killing traitors, and you'd be a fool to believe that every Assassin you meet is going to be your friend, or that friends you already have won't turn and betray you.”

 

Desmond wasn't entirely sure he wanted to agree with that. “That means I can't trust anyone.”

 

“Only yourself.”

 

Desmond gave Altaїr's back a pointed stare. “Not even family?” Surprise showed on Altaїr's face as he looked over his shoulder. Desmond shrugged. “You're my great-great-great-whatever-grandfather, kind of? And you just told me I shouldn't trust you.”

 

Altaїr's mouth opened and closed. He blinked. Then he laughed, a short bark. “Well played.”

 

“I have my moments.” Desmond felt something flake off his face and grimaced, rubbing at his jaw. The blood had lost its terror, but he wasn't too keen on leaving the spatters where they were. “I'd really like to wash that off, now.”

 

Later, scrubbed clean and sitting on the bed with a plate of cold meat, olives and bread before him, Desmond watched Altaїr go through the routine motions of checking the hidden blade and attached bracer for flaws. It was a different model than the ones he'd seen at the Farm, the ones he'd worn during training sessions with his father, the blade slightly longer, narrower.

 

Altaїr, noting his curious look, came over and handed the bracer to him, helping himself to some of Desmond's meal.

 

Experimentally, Desmond slipped his arm into the bracer. It was too large, of course, and way too heavy to be of any use to him, but he couldn't deny the siren's call the weapon had on him. He examined the trigger mechanism, or tried to, but couldn't figure it out at once.

 

“Here,” Altaїr said, taking Desmond's arm in one hand to show him. “See that short piece of leather, and the ring? The ring is hooked into a part of my glove,” he turned his hand, pointing at a tiny metal hook that lay innocently against the inside of his wrist, attached to the bottom of his leather glove, “so when I do this,” and he flicked his hand, pulling at the ring at the same time, “the blade is released.”

 

Said blade shot out with a force Desmond felt reverberating along his entire arm. But even for his child's hand, the blade lay far too close to his fingers when he made a fist. He glanced at Altaїr's hand, wondering.

 

Altaїr held up his left hand, fingers spread, the lack of ring-finger more obvious that way. “The finger is removed during the Novice years,” he explained, “so it has time to heal properly, and so that we can adjust to its lack.”

 

Desmond wasn't looking forward to losing a finger. “I see.”

 

“I'm working on a hidden blade that will allow us to keep the finger.” Altaїr released the ring, causing the blade to retract, and tugged the bracer off Desmond's arm, setting it on the bed next to them. “It is far too obvious a mark.”

 

Thoughtfully, Desmond ate an olive. From his point of view, this entire place was far too obvious a mark – it was a fortress full of Assassins, with an attached village full of peasants who seemed aware of the fact but unconcerned by it. Then, there was the trademark clothing: he hadn't yet figured out what the differently colored robes meant, but so far most men wearing a hidden blade wore the same kind of uniform, that long tunic-like thing with the split end, the wide belt with the red sash under it.

 

Not to forget the hoods, worn by just about everyone, even the gray-bearded, bow-backed old men Desmond often found in the libraries, although they tended to wear them like cowls, bunched about their necks.

 

It was as good as painting a big, red target mark on Masyaf. _'Here there be Assassins_.' Where was the sense in that? Especially if the Templars, according to Altaїr and what the Apple had shown him, were active in this time, too?

 

“I can't read minds.” Altaїr sat cross-legged, chin planted in one hand. “If you have questions, you're going to have to ask them.”

 

“Well, you were the one who said you were going to explain a few things to me. I'm still waiting for that,” Desmond pointed out. He reached for another olive. “But. . . all right. This whole deal here,” he nodded at their surroundings, “makes absolutely no sense to me.”

 

“In what way?”

 

“In every way. How come the Templars haven't attacked Masyaf yet? I mean, it's right here, in the open. It's marked on _maps_.”

 

“They tried,” Altaїr said dryly. “About. . . two years ago, one of their Grandmasters turned up at our gates with a small army. They didn't get further than that. That Grandmaster is dead now, and so are most of his accomplices. We dealt them a heavy blow, and they haven't recovered from that. _Yet_. But it's only a matter of time.”

 

“All right, that makes sense.” Desmond pursed his lips. “But. . . how come _you_ haven't rolled _them_ flat yet? If they're that obvious, what with an army and all?”

 

“Because they've become more secretive, harder to identify, harder to find,” Altaїr explained. “The previous Grandmaster, Robert de Sablé, was very open about their plans and goals, toward me at least, and so were most of his underlings.” His lips twitched, a humorless grin. “It was I who killed him, before you ask. Learning about that 'New World Order' of theirs and thwarting their plans is part of why I'm sitting here, alive.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“What we're seeing right now,” Altaїr went on, “in cities like Acre and Damascus, is Templars going underground and pursuing their plans in secret. They're not stupid – never assume an enemy is stupid. They know that acting openly will only bring our full force down on them, and right now they are vulnerable. The snake has lost its head, so to speak.”

 

“Hydra,” Desmond murmured.

 

“What?”

 

He cleared his throat. “My father used to say they're like the Hydra. Cut off one head, two will grow back.”

 

“In effect, your father is right.” Altaїr stole another morsel from Desmond's plate. “But where is the immortal head we need to cut off to end the monster's life? In Europe? Here? Is it a Christian? Is it a Saracen? Someone else altogether? We don't know. And until we do, we must adapt. If the Templars are going into hiding, we must do the same. If they strike from the shadows, so must we. That's another thing I'm working on, at the moment. But it isn't easy.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Altaїr sighed. “Remember what I said to you? About many of my men not being as open-minded?” Desmond nodded. “Therein lies my problem. I _know_ that we must change, in order to survive. But convincing the others is hard work. Much of what we do, our entire way of life, has been handed down from one generation of Assassins to the next, for centuries. These habits and customs are not easily changed.”

 

“But couldn't you use the Apple?” Desmond didn't see where the problem was. Sure, there were the physical side effects, but he figured they'd be worth the trouble. “To show them, I mean. To convince them?”

 

“No.”

 

“But -”

 

“Desmond, no.” Altaїr looked very serious now, his eyes narrowed. “The Apple is a dangerous tool. I'd rather not make it widely known I possess it. In the wrong hands, it is devastating. In _Templar_ hands, it would pave the path for their New World in ways you can't even begin to imagine.”

 

And yet Altaїr had used it on _him._ Feeling resentment flare up again, Desmond picked at the bedspread. All week long, he'd successfully repressed that feeling, but somehow the conversations between him and Altaїr always ended up with the Apple as a topic.

 

Altaїr sighed heavily. “You'll never forgive me that one, will you?”

 

“Didn't you just say you can't read minds? I'm working on it, all right?” Desmond didn't want to talk about that, not now. “And anyway, how come that guy, the guard, knew about the Apple?”

 

“Abbas? That's a long story.”

 

Desmond crossed his arms over his chest. He was no mind reader, either, but a blind man would have noticed Altaїr's reluctance. “I have _oodles_ of time. And it's not fair. You know so much about me, but I know almost nothing about you.”

 

“I don't know everything about you,” Altaїr protested. And added, pointedly, when Desmond didn't reply to that, “Nor would I pry.”

 

Unbelievable. “I'm not prying! I just want to know how Abbas knew about the Apple.”

 

Altaїr's expression cooled. “And I'm not in the mood to tell you. Patience is an Assassin virtue, or haven't you been told?”

 

“Look, it's not like I'm asking you to tell me your deepest, darkest secrets, I just - you know what? Forget it.” Desmond threw his hands up, frustrated. This was going nowhere. “Thanks for the rescue,” he bit out. “I'm going to bed.”

 

He expected Altaїr to stop him – half hoped for the man to give in – but by the time Desmond reached the door and wasn't called back, knew it was a futile hope. He slammed the door in his wake, as much as he could, and returned, disappointed and angry, to his own room, down the hall.

 

He slammed that door, too, and then leaned against it, staring moodily at the floor. His previously relaxed state of mind was utterly gone.

 

Altaїr expected Desmond to trust him, with his health, his safety, his life, but apparently wasn't willing to extend even half that measure of trust in return – and over something so simple! Desmond had asked for information, nothing more.

 

 _Well_ , Desmond thought, _fuck you, too_.

 

\- - -

 

He woke the next morning with a monumental headache and an even fouler mood than the one he'd gone to sleep with. As if sensing his state of agitation, the bits and pieces of knowledge gained from his encounters with the Apple had crept in, vivid and unforgiving. He'd dreamed of a burning map, marked locations on a three-dimensional depiction of the world, and the two women had been there, pointing at each one of the glowing marks.

 

Juno. Minerva.

 

Desmond's head was ringing with these two names as he rose, going through the morning ritual of washing at a small basin and putting on clothes.

 

Members of a mysterious civilization that had existed on earth, once, powerful and different. They were the creators of the Pieces of Eden, of which the Apple was one. They had also created mankind, according to the Apple – humans as slaves, as cattle, as a workforce.

 

A war had raged, between that powerful, first civilization and mankind. Cross-breeding had happened.

 

The world had ended, raging fires and ash clouds, and it would end _again_ , unless Desmond pulled a miracle or ten out of his ass, survived his time-trip and Altaїr's plan of training, preparing him, and then went _back_ – or forward? - in time once more to prevent the impeding catastrophe.

 

Desmond dunked his head into the basin and scrubbed viciously at his face, attempting to dislodge the memories. It was all such a load of bullshit, with him caught right in the middle of it without a means of escape. He hadn't asked for this. He didn't want to be the world's savior – that in itself had to be a cosmic joke of epic proportions. Desmond Miles, the hero?

 

He snorted, grabbing for the piece of clean linen that functioned as towel. Yeah, right.

 

Someone else could have those honors, and Desmond would wish them good luck, and pat them on the shoulder, and then send them a bunch of flowers when it was all over.

 

Breakfast was usually served in Altaїr's room. Desmond wasn't in the mood to deal with that, not after last night, and headed downstairs into Masyaf's grand hall. By now, he knew where the kitchens were, and resolved himself to find something to eat later, set on avoiding Altaїr as much as possible for at least a day or two. He needed a break from the man's whiplash mood changes, as well as his own reactions to them. He was going to find a quiet corner, preferably out of everyone's way, and wait for the headache to go away – because, of course, there was no Aspirin to be had, either.

 

As he reached the end of the walkway that connected to the stairs into the grand hall, however, Desmond slowed down. There was an unusually high number of people assembled at the bottom of the stairs, black and white robes, hooded and bare-headed.

 

Altaїr stood out among them like a sore thumb. Malik was there, too, at Altaїr's side.

 

Was this about Abbas, perhaps? Desmond didn't know what Altaїr had done with the body, in those few moments he'd been out of sight last night, but surely by now the guard's absence had to have been noticed. Perhaps someone had even witnessed the events that had transpired in the garden. There was no curfew imposed on those who lived in the fortress, as far as Desmond could tell. Maybe an old scholar, aching back keeping them from finding rest, had taken a stroll too close to a window and looked into the garden to see the revered Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood murder a brethren of the Creed.

 

From behind, even.

 

It wasn't a very amusing thought. The ramifications for Altaїr could potentially be drastic, unless people bought that Abbas had been about to accost Desmond after finding him in the garden, alone. Obviously things in this time were handled a lot differently than Desmond had been used to, at the Farm, but he doubted Altaїr could wind himself out of that one entirely unscathed.

 

By now Desmond had stopped walking and stood close to the wooden handrail, watching the scene below. There was no shouting, which he decided to take as a good sign. No one's hand was wrapped around a dagger or brandishing an unsheathed hidden blade. Perhaps it was simply another meeting, taking place in the grand hall and not the Mentor's study, that long, shelf-filled chamber Altaїr had spent almost all of last week in.

 

He attempted to eavesdrop, but was too far away for that. He was tempted to get closer, curiosity nagging at him, but then reminded himself that he'd meant to _avoid_ Altaїr.

 

There was another stairway, on the other end of the walkway. He'd take that one, and go out the front doors.

 

Something blue flashed at the edge of his peripheral field of view as Desmond turned. Startled, he looked for it. There it was again, a gentle blue, outlining an elderly man in the middle of the crowd gathered around Altaїr.

 

Blue. Not gold. Not the Apple – or at least he hoped it wasn't something caused by that cursed ball.

 

Whatever it was, it was worsening his headache. Desmond actually had to grasp at the handrail, swaying on his feet as the pounding at his brow shifted viciously fast to an acute pain behind his eyes. There were more blue outlines now, in the crowd, along with people colored an indistinct gray.

 

He made the mistake of looking at Altaїr, next to whom Malik stood out like a beacon of blue fire.

 

Altaїr's outline wasn't blue. His was gold, an incandescent halo surrounding him.

 

Desmond tore himself away from that sight before it managed to permanently burn itself into his retinas, grabbing with both hands at the handrail for support. As soon as he faced the walkway, empty behind him, it was better, but not by much: Masyaf itself was _wavering_ , the walls, the floor, the vaulted ceiling, as if Desmond was looking at everything through warped, tinted glass.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Desmond looked up at the tower of pale blue that had appeared out of nowhere, next to him. Vaguely, he recognized the face as belonging to a guard he'd seen a couple of times before.

 

“I don't feel so good,” he managed, and screw upholding that ridiculous charade. “Can you take me back to my room?”

 

The guard hesitated. “Your father is right there, should I -”

 

Emphatically, Desmond shook his head. What he needed right now was to lie down somewhere, until this vision, after-effect of exposure to the Apple, or whatever it was, had passed. Preferably, he needed to lie down before a certain someone in the grand hall noticed what was going on and decided to investigate.

 

It was embarrassing, but he raised his arms. “My room. Please?” As soon as the guard had lifted him and they were headed back down the hallway that housed the Mentor's private chambers, Desmond shut his eyes. Immediately, he felt better, the pain receding to a more manageable level. “Thank you.”

 

“Are you sure you're all right?” The guard sounded concerned and nervous. He shifted Desmond, freeing one hand to open a door. “I can fetch a physician. And I really _should_ tell your father -”

 

“Yes,” Altaїr snarled, from somewhere behind them, “you definitely should.”

 

The way the guard froze was almost comical. Desmond _felt_ the tremors going through the man's body and nearly laughed; he couldn't see the guard's face, but 'oh shit' expressions tended to be universally the same. He opened his eyes a bit, squinting against the harsh glare of gold at the end of the hallway. Damn, did Altaїr have eyes at the back of his head?

 

“Mentor! I -”

 

“He was just helping me,” Desmond said. Even just a few moments of looking at Altaїr had intensified the pain again. This wasn't a vision. This was physical. And that worried him. “I'm fine, _dad_.”

 

He was taken out of the guard's arms, a clipped command sending the poor man on his way.

 

“You seriously need to tone down the aggro,” Desmond said, firmly keeping his eyes shut.

 

There was a long moment of profound silence. Then, sounding incredulous, Altaїr asked, “I need to tone down my _manhood_?”

 

Apparently, some things didn't translate well. Desmond bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to _stop_ if he started.

 

Altaїr took a firm hold of his chin. “Open your eyes.”

 

“No,” Desmond moaned, still shaking with suppressed laughter. “My head's killing me. Look, you're busy, right? Just put me in my room, I just want to lie down for a bit.”

 

“Desmond,” Altaїr said in a tone of voice that allowed no refusal, “open your eyes.”

 

What was Altaїr going to do, cut his eyelids off? Desmond attempted to pull away just out of spite, only to feel the grip on his face tighten. He pushed against Altaїr's shoulder, giving in to a streak of rebelliousness; it was stupid, Desmond knew, because if this was physical he would _need_ help, but it was also about making a point. He wasn't Altaїr's personal wind-up toy.

 

“Are you finished?” Altaїr asked, coolly. “Open them. Now.”

 

“No.” Desmond bared his teeth, angry again. “Leave me the hell alone.”

 

“Fine.”

 

He was set down. Altaїr's footsteps echoed as he walked away, and then a door opened and shut.

 

Momentarily stunned, Desmond grasped around for something to hold on to, his hand finding a rough stone wall and an edge of something else, wood. Probably the door to his room.

 

Torn between sudden misery and anger now, Desmond felt his way inside. His head was still pounding, but it wasn't as bad as before, and a careful glance around showed distorted, familiar furniture. At least, there were no more glowing blue outlines.

 

The bastard had just _left_ him.

 

Desmond couldn't remember ever meeting anyone who ran between hot and cold the way Altaїr did – his father, perhaps, came closest, and look how that had ended. In fact, Altaїr and William Miles were so alike in certain aspects, it was downright scary, not to forget frustrating. They had the same kind of 'my way or the highway' attitude that grated so much.

 

The prospect of living through a second childhood under that. . .

 

 _You're not exactly making it easy for him, either_.

 

The thought came unbidden and refused to leave him alone.

 

Desmond found his bed, unmade and rumpled as he'd left it barely an hour ago. He nestled into the sheets, miserable.

 

\- - -

 

He must have fallen asleep. Sun fell brightly through the windows, warming him as he stretched slowly and squinted against the light. His headache was gone, thankfully, and whatever had been wrong with his eyes had resolved itself. He looked at the walls, the furniture. No more wavering, unclear lines.

 

He felt calmer now, too. Rolling onto his back, ignoring his belly's insistent rumbling, Desmond thought about opposing forces and how they tended to clash until one broke or both crumbled.

 

It was perhaps a tad too dramatic, but in essence it encompassed his problem: he was naturally rebellious, at least where certain matters where concerned. Growing up at the Farm, his father had tried to burn that out of him, at first with a parent's natural authority and later, when Desmond was older, with increasingly stricter rules and a training regiment that had been so intense at times he'd started to fear it. It had only made Desmond more rebellious; worse, it had made him _doubt_.

 

He'd run away, as a result. Perhaps doubt wasn't the only deciding factor that had made him struck out on his own; he'd longed for a life that wasn't restricted to the Farm and his father's apocalyptic stories about the war between Templars and Assassins.

 

There was nowhere for him to run, here. Worse, his father had been _right_. Not about everything, but about enough.

 

Desmond had experienced similar feelings of guilt and regret gnawing at him, after the second time Altaїr exposed him to the Apple. Ultimately, he had to admit to himself that William Miles' apocalyptic stories contained more than just a grain of truth, and that, perhaps, it had been wrong to want to run away from it.

 

“Fuck it,” Desmond muttered, sitting up.

 

His father wasn't here. But Altaїr was.

 

Desmond rose, slowly finding his way out of his room and down the hallway. During the day, Masyaf was bustling with activity. He spent a few minutes on the walkway, watching the people in the grand hall go about their business. Whatever this morning's meeting had been about appeared to have no effect; there were no more guards than usual, and the few Desmond did meet on his way gave him mild, curious smiles.

 

The Mentor's private chambers were at the very top of Masyaf's tallest tower, which meant a long climb up tall stairs and passing through several heavily guarded doors. Desmond had only been here once – there were other, far more interesting places in the fortress – and wondered, again, why Altaїr insisted on using quarters in one of the other towers. He had an entire floor to himself, up here, but seemed to prefer the by far smaller room on the same hallway as Desmond's.

 

Coming up to the last door, a little out of breath from climbing the steep stairs, Desmond was met by yet another round of smiles from the guards stationed outside.

 

“Is my father in?”

 

“He is.” The guard on the left was already lifting his hand to knock and added in a mutter, “So is his bad mood.”

 

Obviously the comment hadn't been meant for Desmond's ears. Adults, no matter the time period, seemed to have a tendency to drop commentary within earshot of children, apparently thinking themselves safe in the belief no child would ever pick up on the _tone_ something was said in, even if the words made no sense. Desmond had felt a little insulted at first, when he realized people were talking – literally – over his head, but by now he was used to it.

 

He walked past the guards when the door opened, looking around.

 

The study took up the entirety of the top of the tower, with several parts of the space on raised levels. Bookshelves and tables, crammed with all conceivable kinds of books, scrolls and even crumbling stone tablets, lined most of the walls or doubled as 'walls', separating the space into smaller 'rooms' and creating a labyrinthine effect. Windows all around allowed an unhindered view of the fortress and the surrounding land. At one of the windows stood a small pigeon coop.

 

Altaїr sat behind a desk at the far back of the study, clad in his usual black robe. He held a pen in one hand, his other on the desk before him, wrapped around a familiar object. Desmond took a noisy breath when he recognized the Apple, but made his way over regardless. He walked up to the side of Altaїr's chair.

 

The hooded head turned, minimally, in his direction. The guard hadn't been exaggerating – Desmond could almost taste Altaїr's mood, dark and sour, like a second entity hanging about the man's shoulders. The look he was given wasn't very inviting, either.

 

Desmond wasn't impressed. Altaїr had done things and acted in ways that had scared the living daylights out of him, over the previous days, but deep down Desmond wasn't _afraid_ of the man. He doubted he would be here, otherwise.

 

“I've come to apologize.”

 

When no reaction came, Desmond shrugged inwardly. He grabbed a hold of the chair's armrest and pulled himself up, wedging his toes between the seat and Altaїr's thigh. The surface of the desk was cluttered with paper, scrawled notes and drawings. Some of the drawings were of mundane things: flowers, a bird in flight, a man's face that upon second look had a startling resemblance to Malik's. Others showed star constellations, charts and implements Desmond could only guess at.

 

Altaїr let go of the Apple and set the pen aside. He laid his hands against the armrests of his chair, which Desmond decided to take as an invitation. Kicking off his sandals, he climbed into Altaїr's lap, scooting around until he was facing the desk. It felt weird – it _was_ weird, climbing into someone's lap, even if he had the right size for it – but he shrugged the feeling off.

 

“What are you working on?” he asked, genuinely curious. Altaїr seemed to be using the Apple the way people in his time used the internet.

 

Altaїr's sigh ruffled the hair at the top of his head. “I take it you're feeling better.”

 

“Much. No more headache.”

 

There was a drawing, just within arm's reach, that showed a detailed rendering of a hidden blade. As he reached for it, however, Altaїr's hand snaked around him, cupping his chin and gently pulling his head back until Desmond was looking up at him.

 

“I am no good at this,” Altaїr said after a moment. He was frowning, but most of the coldness had gone out of his expression. “I didn't want to tell you about Abbas and how I came into possession of the Apple because it's a time of my life I'm embarrassed about.”

 

“It's okay,” Desmond said. He chose his words carefully, “Just tell me enough so I can avoid stuff like meeting another Abbas when I don't expect it. You said I'm too small to train, and I get that – but that means information is my best weapon. You can't _always_ watch over me.”

 

“I can try,” Altaїr said dryly. “At the very least, until you're tall enough to wield a dagger, or a hidden blade.”

 

His hand dropped from Desmond's chin, but he didn't seem quite willing to entirely let go, yet. Thus, Desmond found himself pulled into a loose embrace, Altaїr's arm settling around him carefully enough to let on that Desmond, perhaps, wasn't the only one unused to that kind of contact.

 

But it was nice. There was nothing wrong with a round of cuddling, if the mood was right.

 

“The Apple,” Altaїr said, “originally belonged to Al Mualim, or Rashid ad-Din Sinan as his true name was. He was my teacher, as well as the brotherhood's Mentor. And, for a time, he was also a Templar.“

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 13 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

One of the Assassins walked up to Desmond's seat, ignoring Lucy, and hooked a thumb in the direction of the front of the plane. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

 

“Excuse me,” Desmond said, rising immediately. “Shaun, watch her.”

 

The historian, who'd up to now divided his time between listening and periodically checking his e-mail program, took Desmond's seat. There was a small, compact gun in his hands, indiscreetly pointed at her.

 

“You do realize that firing a gun in a plane is the best way to get us all killed?” Lucy pointed out.

 

Shaun's smile was all teeth. “At the very least I'd be taking you with me.”

 

Spoken like a true Assassin. Lucy felt it was beneath her to also point out that Shaun wasn't an Assassin, at least not a real one. He'd been brought into the order for qualities that had little to do with killing another person, and more with his inquisitive mind and ability to coordinate team movement. Rebecca tended to bring up the story how she'd rescued Shaun's ass from a horde of Templars at pretty much every get-together.

 

Lucy stretched, careful to avoid hasty movement. She glanced around, noting that most of the heads visible above the backrests of the front seats were bowed, their owners asleep. She was tired herself. She was also hungry and thirsty, having been on the move after the events at the research facility for six or seven hours now, even if she wasn't truly moving.

 

She looked at Shaun. “Any chance the Geneva Convention means anything to you?”

 

He snorted, fishing for a black duffel bag sitting on the seat in front of Desmond's and extracting a small bottle of mineral water. He never looked away from her and threw the bottle into her lap. “I'm afraid we're all out of sandwiches, though.”

 

Lucy took thirsty swallows, feeling better immediately. “Tell me, how did Desmond meet up with you guys? As far as I know you were in hiding. How did he find you?”

 

“He just knocked on the door one day.” Shaun shrugged. “Ask him, I don't know.”

 

“Right. The missing son of an Assassin leader turns up at the door of a supposedly secret hide-out, and you didn't worry, or wonder, or. . .”

 

“He was very convincing,” Shaun said, in a tone of voice that hinted at more. “Like I said, ask him. It's not my place to tell.”

 

As if on cue, Desmond returned. He'd changed out of his bloodied hoodie, and for the first time Lucy saw that he wasn't wearing one hidden blade, but two. Without a glance at Lucy, he shooed Shaun out of the seat and sat back down.

 

There was something off, Lucy could tell. Desmond appeared closed off again, cold, and he sat normally, not sideways as he had before.

 

She couldn't resist asking. “Bad news?”

 

“None of your business.” Desmond pulled a cellphone from a pocket, tapping rapidly on the small screen.

 

It was as clear a dismissal as she'd ever gotten. Lucy looked to Shaun, who gave her meaningful glance in return and then busied himself with his laptop once more.

 

“I suppose the story time is over,” Lucy murmured.


	4. FOUR

_**Chapter FOUR** _

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 13 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

The plane began to descend in a wide swoop. People were rising from their seats, stretching to loosen their muscles, the sounds of quiet conversation reaching Lucy where she sat, bleary-eyed and restless. For over an hour now, she'd been sitting in complete silence: Desmond had ignored her, every once in a while checking something on his cellphone. Shaun had long since succumbed to sleep, leaned awkwardly against his seat, his mouth open with soft snores.

 

“Buckle up, guys, we're about to land,” a man's voice announced over the plane's speakers.

 

Automatically, Lucy belted herself in. She still had no idea where they were going or what was going to happen to her, and without the distraction of conversation, those questions gnawed at her now, making her more nervous than she was willing to admit. Nervous people made mistakes.

 

Desmond roused Shaun with an unsubtle prod. The historian blinked at the plane's rounded ceiling for a minute before hastily packing up his laptop.

 

To her surprise, Desmond then took a seat next to her, a familiar piece of cloth in one hand.

 

“I don't suppose you're willing to tell me what you plan to do with me.”

 

He glanced at her sideways, his entire demeanor that much colder than it had been before. From up close, he smelled fantastic, musky and male, with a hint of aftershave. She couldn't deny he was attractive.

 

Yet she also wondered if Desmond was quite _sane_ ; the sudden change in his mood had thrown her more badly than she liked to think about. Perhaps that was something he'd picked up from Altaїr, who'd appeared more than capable of switching between hot and cold whenever it suited him.

 

“For now, you're alive.” He pulled the black hood over her head without any further explanation. Then he gathered her wrists in one hand, behind her back, and snapped another set of plastic binders around them.

 

The plane landed. Lucy was pulled up from her seat and guided to the exit, a gust of surprisingly cold wind making her shiver as she descended the short gangway. Where were they? They had been flying for hours, but not long enough to have crossed any oceans. She'd assumed they were going back to the United States, the country which, ironically, held the highest Templar population but was also one of the last Assassin strongholds, as far as she knew.

 

Therein lay the problem, didn't it? What she thought she'd known about the Assassins' current state of affairs apparently no longer applied. They'd known about _her_ , after all, so the status quo she'd assumed could no longer be taken for granted.

 

She was guided over smooth tarmac, trying to identify the surroundings by her sense of hearing. Planes. Cars. In the distance, speakers were blaring, too far away to make out the language. She smelled snow in the air, earth; judging by the quality of it the air itself and the way she was breathing faster, they were at a high altitude. Somewhere in the mountains? If so, which mountains? The Alps?

 

Her foot connected sharply with something solid, nearly sending her to the ground in a sprawl. Only her guide's grip on her elbow saved her, but it was a harsh grip, the yank that kept her on her feet tearing at the muscles in her shoulder.

 

“Stairs.”

 

She'd half expected it to be Rebecca again, considering the woman's apparent need to physically express her distaste for Lucy, but it was Desmond's voice that instructed her to lift her feet, this time.

 

At least Lucy now knew they were boarding another plane. Money had never been a problem when she'd still been affiliated with the Assassins, but. . . planes? Especially ones loaded with sophisticated equipment? Not to forget about the airport officials, the security, the international air travel restrictions, especially in the wake of 9/11, all the stuff that had to be circumnavigated that made traveling by plane not the most sensible means of transportation overland, if one was in a hurry.

 

There weren't that many countries left on the world map where rich people could start and land as they pleased.

 

She was pushed into another seat, her thigh bumping into something solid in front of her. The hood was taken off again and she saw it was a table, like the ones in the other plane, bolted to the wall.

 

There in the middle of the table, on a small cup-like pedestal, sat an Apple of Eden.

 

Lucy recognized it immediately, although she had never seen one from up close. The Pieces of Eden already in Abstergo's possession were kept under lock and key; only a carefully selected number of people had access to these relics, and Lucy wasn't among them.

 

She stared at it, stunned. Lucy's field of specialty was cognitive neuroscience, a science so obscure she'd had a hard time finding work before Abstergo offered her a job; she'd worked mainly on the Animus Project under the late Warren Vidic, but in effect the goal of all that work had been to obtain an Apple of Eden.

 

Now one was before her, within arm's reach.

 

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

 

Desmond dropped into the seat on the other side of the table. He scooted over so he was next to the window, fiddling with the straps of one of his hidden blades and giving her a cynical smile.

 

“'Beautiful' isn't quite the word I'd use,” Lucy said carefully. Surreptitiously, she glanced around while Desmond was still occupied with his weapon. As far as she could tell, they were alone in the plane. It was also a much larger plane than the one before, suited for long-distance travel.

 

Her mind was racing with possibilities already. The Italian research facility, technically the entire Animus Project, was a loss. Vidic was dead, and she was certain that most of the other researchers were, too. Desmond had been very _thorough_. She was also willing to bet that the other test subjects they'd held in Italy had either fallen victim to Desmond's killing spree, in a sort of perverted act of mercy, or been released – into the care of the Assassins.

 

Maybe. It didn't truly matter. The one Apple of Eden that had been in Templar hands was destroyed. With Desmond out of Abstergo's reach, the chances of Templars getting their hands on another Apple were practically nil. He had been, after all, the prize catch. The one everyone – rightfully, she knew now – assumed would know the location of Altaїr's Apple.

 

Never in her wildest dreams would Lucy have imagined that Desmond didn't only know where the Apple was, but also that he had it.

 

But if _she_ could get her hands on this Apple, the possibilities were endless. She didn't have a clue how these relics were operated, but how hard could it be, if a man like Altaїr could figure it out? She could get away. She could kill the Assassins that currently held her captive, including Desmond and his father, and return into the waiting arms of her Templar brethren, who would welcome her with accolades.

 

Real power. . .

 

Lucy leaned forward. If only her hands were free.

 

Desmond snatched the Apple up from its small pedestal. Hungrily, she watched him toss it from one hand to the other, as though it was a toy. Did he not _realize_ what a treasure he held?

 

The fingers of one of Desmond's hands formed a tent, the Apple balanced on his fingertips. The decorative grooves and lines marking the Apple's smooth, dull surface began to glow gently, a warm, welcoming light that drew Lucy nearly out of her seat. It didn't feel at all like the threatening glare he'd described. She wanted to hold it. Stroke it.

 

“Get up,” Desmond said.

 

Lucy got up. She was out of her seat before she knew what she was doing, awkwardly using her bound hands to have leverage.

 

“Come here. Stand next to the seat, there.”

 

She took the two steps to the other side of the table. Dumbfounded, Lucy realized she was following Desmond's every command. Her body was moving without her input.

 

Desmond reached his free hand under the table. When it reappeared, he held an elegantly curved dagger. The blade was nearly fifteen inches long, Damascus steel, finely honed; the irregular, trademark pattern that decorated it caught and reflected the Apple's glow.

 

“If I told you to fuck yourself on this, you'd do it.”

 

She wouldn't. Wouldn't she? “I -”

 

“Want to try?” Desmond planted his hand against the edge of the table, the blade angled toward her. “Fuck yourself on this.”

 

She'd already turned and was angling her hips, her thighs spreading. The tip of the blade scratched over the denim of her jeans, right at her crotch. She lifted herself to tip-toes, ready to plunge down on the dagger.

 

Lucy screamed.

 

Desmond yanked the dagger away at the very last moment. Lucy's hips collided painfully with the edge of the table, the force that held her in a tight grip releasing so suddenly she lost balance and ended up falling to the floor of the narrow aisle between the seats, kicking and filled with terror at what she'd been about to do, at Desmond's command.

 

Her stomach heaved. She tasted bile in her mouth, and she was still kicking madly and scrambling to get away when Desmond leaned over the side of the seat and lifted an eyebrow at her.

 

“Still think it's a good idea for your Templar buddies to get their hands on this thing?”

 

He sounded bored. Worse, he sounded _satisfied_. Lucy stared up at him, at eyes that reflected no emotion, only the gold glow of the Apple.

 

She lifted a leg and aimed her heel at his jaw.

 

But she was too frazzled, adrenaline making her jittery, her heart racing and her stomach cramping. Her heel hit nothing, air; Desmond didn't even move, just looked at her with those empty, dead, _gold_ eyes.

 

“They wouldn't,” she gasped, as soon as she could draw enough air. “They – _we_ want peace. A world without war. Without poverty. Famine. Racial segregation.”

 

He snorted. His teeth flashed between his lips, snarl more than smile. “If you truly believe that, after what I almost made you do to yourself, then you're truly an idiot.”

 

Desmond's head disappeared from her line of sight; he was sitting back up, and Lucy remained prone in the narrow aisle, the only sounds now her rapid breathing and the faraway hum of other planes. It took her a long time to calm down enough to force her body into obeying her, until she could sit up, and even longer until she found the strength to get back to her feet.

 

She flopped into her seat. The Apple was back on its small pedestal, once more dormant. The dagger lay on the table in front of Desmond.

 

“Peace,” Lucy repeated, firmly.

 

“A world without free will. The Templars replacing Those Who Came Before, ascending to a throne they think they deserve.” Desmond regarded her calmly. “On whose bones would _your_ throne be built, Lucy? What happens to those who don't want this new world?”

 

“Sacrifices must be made -”

 

“Like the Assassins sacrificed you, when they sent you to infiltrate Abstergo?”

 

She fell silent.

 

Desmond lifted his hands, palms toward the ceiling: scales. “The Assassins abandoned you,” one hand went downward, the other up, “so now you choose the other side,” the motion repeated itself, inverse, until both of Desmond's hands were on the same level, “to even the scales? Is this about revenge?”

 

“Hardly.” It was her turn to snort, and she put as much contempt into the sound as she could. “Your father sacrificed countless people for a pointless war. He still does. I wasn't the first, and I certainly wasn't the last. Stop being such a sanctimonious asshole, it doesn't suit you. Peace through chaos, my ass. I _chose_ the side I believe is better suited to end it all, for the sake of -”

 

Lucy cut herself off. She realized what he'd done, felt a moment's bitter self-recrimination at being so easily out-maneuvered.

 

As if to hammer the point home, Desmond said placidly, “At least you _had_ a choice.”

 

“That's why I'm still alive? So you can save me from myself?” She sneered at him. “I'm the lost lamb, and you're guiding me back into the flock?”

 

Desmond dropped his hands into his lap. “I believe in redemption. To be perfectly honest, personally I don't care if you're dead or alive.”

 

“And yet we're sitting here, having this discussion.”

 

“Like I said.” Desmond lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I believe in redemption.”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, Summer 1193**

\- - -

 

The small throwing dagger whistled only scant centimeters past Desmond's ear, before it bounced against the thick wood board leaned against the wall behind him and fell harmlessly to the ground. He was bent sideways at the waist, all his weight on his left foot, his right nearly off the ground, a pose more befitting a dancer than a warrior. Holding the position for a mere second, Desmond swung his upper body to the right, regaining his balance. An inch or two more to the left, and he'd have overbalanced, landing in a sprawl on the dry, brown grass.

 

He slid his feet apart, finding a firmer stance and ignoring the sweat that slid down his temples, and concentrated on the man whose sole hand already held another throwing dagger.

 

“Not bad,” Malik commented. He flipped the dagger over the backs of his fingers, so fast Desmond could barely follow the movement of the twirling blade. “Last one.”

 

Desmond readied himself. Altaїr was deadly, quicksilver-fast with a hidden blade, a dagger, or a sword, or even just his bare hands, but Malik was the better knife thrower, if only by a hair's breadth. He had a way of rotating his wrist at the very last moment, before the knife left his hand, which made determining the angle it would fly nearly impossible.

 

Desmond hadn't yet figured out how to twist his own wrist like that, secretly convinced that Malik possessed an extra joint.

 

He was getting better at evading the small missiles, though. Malik was down to the last dagger out of twenty: twelve had hit Desmond, leaving bruises he knew he'd be feeling for days to come. Malik didn't pull his punches, not even during training. Had the daggers been sharp, not purposefully dulled, Desmond would have been dead many times over.

 

But he'd evaded seven out of the twenty.

 

The twentieth dagger flew at him without warning. As soon as it did, Desmond knew it would hit him. He had to make a split second's decision between walking around with a bruise in the middle of his forehead, possibly for _days_ , or an undignified sprawl in the grass. There were people _watching_ , Assassins with their hoods up to protect their eyes from the glare of the midday sun, even two or three of the scholars.

 

Desmond had never performed well in front of a crowd.

 

He hesitated a second too long and missed his opportunity to drop where he stood.

 

 _Another bruise it is, then_.

 

A hand shot down in front of Desmond's face, catching the small dagger before it impacted. Black cloth billowed around him, and the undignified sprawl he hadn't had the time to perform turned into an even more undignified squeal of surprise as he stumbled back and connected sharply with someone's legs.

 

Desmond fought his way out of the black cloth and glared upward. “ _Da-ad_!”

 

The crowd – only a handful of off-duty Assassins, really, and two scholars – dispersed quickly, apparently convinced being anywhere else but _here_ was the best idea, ever. Within moments, the garden was deserted. Only Malik remained, the corners of his mouth twitching.

 

Altaїr's answering glare could have frozen hell over, with some ice to spare for heaven. Without a word, he dropped the small dagger and pointed an accusing finger downward.

 

Desmond glanced at the splint around his right forearm, more for show these days than for the broken bone it was suppose to mend, and huffed noisily. Really, he was _fine_. That unfortunate accident lay almost six weeks in the past, and besides, it hadn't even been a real break. The physicians who'd fussed over Desmond, after he took an unforeseen and quite unintended dive off a tall rock, had diagnosed a partial fracture. What did these quacks know, anyway? It wasn't like they had made an _informed_ diagnosis based on an x-ray scan.

 

As if to prove him wrong, said forearm now gave a warning twinge. “Ow.”

 

Above Desmond came the long-suffering sigh of the parent forced to deal with the recalcitrant child. Altaїr bent and picked him up, heading for the distinctly cooler area where Malik stood, shielded from the sun's brunt by the wide, colorful awning erected over the entrance to the garden.

 

Without a word to Malik, Altaїr sat down on the stairs. He plopped Desmond into his lap, taking Desmond's arm in one hand and prodding carefully from elbow to wrist, around and between the splint.

 

“Okay,” Desmond said, hurriedly, when the twinging turned into lightning bolts of pain, “that really hurts now.”

 

“You stupid, little. . .” Altaїr trailed off, obviously frustrated, but he stopped prodding. “I should turn you over my knee.”

 

“You do that,” Desmond informed him pleasantly, “and I'll find a way to murder you in your sleep.”

 

Malik apparently lost his fight to keep a straight face; Desmond looked up, annoyed, at his trainer. The man was laughing under his breath, watching them.

 

“You should not encourage him,” Altaїr said, accusingly. “You were supposed to watch him, not throw knives at him!”

 

Malik headed into the garden and began to collect his set of throwing daggers. “I could make a comment now, about apples and trees, and how one does not fall far from the other, but I am a civilized being, so I shan't. And who am I to deny our revered Mentor's son? Love the children, isn't that what you've been preaching to all and sundry, lately?”

 

Altaїr muttered something extremely unfriendly under his breath, about camels and how they had possibly played a rather large role in Malik's ancestry. Then he sobered, turning to Desmond. “This was really a stupid idea.”

 

Desmond was inclined to agree. He hadn't noticed anything during the training, probably because he'd been too focused on Malik's deadly accurate aim, adrenaline keeping everything at bay. Now, his arm hurt, the pain radiating all the way up into his shoulder. Miserably, he dropped his brow to Altaїr's shoulder. “I'm sorry. But I'm so _bored_.”

 

Altaїr rubbed his back, gathering him closer, mindful of the injured arm folded across Desmond's belly. “Then grow faster. I have a whole world full of sharp weapons to occupy you with, once you can actually hold them.”

 

There was no malice in Altaїr's tone of voice, no hidden jibe; the man could be scarily comforting, when he wanted to be. Desmond had long since stopped feeling bothered by how he responded to that – it was as it was. He wasn't questioning them any more, the times he crawled into Altaїr's lap, seeking comfort.

 

Much had changed, over the course of a single year.

 

Altaїr rose. Malik rejoined them under the awning, and a hand ruffled Desmond's hair.

 

“You did well,” Malik said.

 

Praise was a thing hard-won from the erstwhile _rafiq_. Desmond knew – he'd learned to write and read under Malik's tutelage, and walked away from the lessons ready to scream, more often than not. He spoke the local Arabic dialect thanks to unrequested Apple shenanigans, but mastering the strange, flowing script had been like attempting to decipher Moonspeak. He'd been put through school French at the Farm, for reasons still beyond him, and spectacularly failed at it, but at least French used the same _alphabet_ as English.

 

“How was the meeting?” Malik asked.

 

“Long,” Altaїr said, heading back up the short flight of stairs and inside. “We'll talk later. I'm hungry, and I want to take off this damned robe.”

 

They were having a very hot summer, hotter than the first Desmond had experienced, last year. The village that clustered beneath Masyaf was baking under the heat and the villagers, used to dealing with such weather, refrained from setting foot outside their doors during most of the day, doing only what was necessary to save their fields and tend to their animals. It was so hot that the river winding through the Orontes Valley was little more than a trickle of muddied water by the time it reached the edge of the horizon.

 

Masyaf's grand hall was blessedly cool, compared to the dry heat of the garden. The fortress' thick stone walls kept the sun at bay during the days but retained enough heat for the nights, which could be surprisingly cool.

 

Desmond had learned to adapt to the weather by now, and usually would have spent the midday heat either dozing somewhere or reading, but he'd been doing that for over a week now. There was only so much reading he could do before restlessness set in, and he'd hunted down Malik, begging for something to do.

 

The result was a pained arm, a grumpy Altaїr, and a sweat-soaked tunic that clung unpleasantly to his skin, not to mention his breeches, but Desmond was in a much better mood than he had been, for days. He was also tired and hungry and was looking forward to a meal.

 

Altaїr set Desmond on the ground at the door to his room. “Make yourself presentable. There's something I need to talk about with both of you.”

 

Curious, Desmond looked from him to Malik, who wore an inquisitive expression now. “All right.”

 

He washed quickly, hunting down a spare tunic and breeches. He needed to sort his clothes, he realized, so the dirty ones could be sent to the washer women in the village. It was expected of him to pick up after himself and keep his room neat, something easily accomplished considering there wasn't much in it aside from his bed, a small trunk for his clothes and a bookshelf.

 

He made a mental note to get that done, later, and padded barefoot down the hallway to Altaїr's room.

 

Altaїr stood at the wash basin in the corner, occupied with some cleaning up himself. He'd stripped off the black robe of the Mentor, the Assassin robe, belt, sash and tunic under it and was bare to the waist. Most Assassins Desmond had seen shirtless boasted an impressive array of scars, on their arms and torso, from too close encounters with enemy arrows and blades. In comparison, Altaїr's tanned skin was almost completely unmarked. The only truly visible one was the scar across his lips, the one now absent from Desmond's own face.

 

Desmond joined Malik on the floor in front of the bed, where seating cushions had already been arranged in a circle around several covered earthenware bowls and pots, and helped putting the finishing touches on the midday meal. Malik, too, had taken off his black _djellaba_ ; he wore the same Assassin robe and tunic, the sleeve where his right arm used to be pinned tidily at the shoulder.

 

Eating was done in customary silence. The local cuisine had taken some getting used to, but it was solid, good food and Desmond had never been a finicky eater. There was cold meat and flat bread, hummus, steamed vegetables and big, fleshy olives. For dessert, there was the thick, salty yoghurt-like stuff he had taken a liking to, especially when there was honey to sweeten it with.

 

Altaїr and Malik sat side by side, their thighs touching. Altaїr had a habit of stealing food from other people's plates, and every once in a while Malik would bat at an invasive hand.

 

It was a sign of comfort, to Desmond. It was also amusing to watch, that non-aggressive war over food, the silent squabbling they did with glances and elbows; Malik and Altaїr kept their relationship a secret out of necessity. Only when alone, or when Desmond was their sole company, did they allow themselves to openly show their feelings for the other.

 

That had taken some getting used to, too. Not the relationship itself: Desmond had barged right into that, one afternoon last year, to the sight of two naked men on the bed, indulging in something that most _definitely_ wasn't a fight over the pillows. There had been much embarrassment all around, and it was the only time Desmond had ever seen Altaїr floundering and red-faced.

 

It was the need for secrecy that Desmond hadn't truly understood, at the time, or why Malik had been pale with fear after they'd noticed their audience-of-one. Altaїr had tip-toed around Desmond for _days_ , and then explained to him what sodomy was and what awaited the people found guilty of it.

 

It had been a grim, sobering talk. Islam was the predominant religion in Syria, the crusades hadn't changed that; many Assassins were deeply religious, as were the villagers, the envoys, the traders that visited Masyaf periodically – in a way, Altaїr and Malik were literally surrounded by enemies, the need to keep their relationship hidden no longer so inexplicable.

 

Desmond now knocked on Altaїr's door, when it was closed. He still didn't understand how Altaїr had ever managed to sire children, not to mention founded an entire bloodline – in effect, done what would allow _Desmond_ to exist, centuries later – considering Malik was definitely male, but perhaps there were other Adhas, out there.

 

Everything was permitted, after all.

 

“I must go to Acre,” Altaїr said when they'd finished eating. “Our spies have reported disturbing news from the city. I have a name and a location.”

 

“Send someone else,” Malik grumbled. He was cleaning his teeth with a sliver of wood, the High Middle Ages' equivalent of a toothpick. “You're needed _here_ , as the Mentor. You have enough capable men at your disposal.”

 

“It is I who must go,” Altaїr said decisively. “There is no other way.”

 

Unbidden, Desmond thought of the Apple, and how Altaїr tended to use it, exposing himself to its effects in exchange for information, glimpses of a disturbing past and an equally disturbing future. There was already an entire shelf in the Mentor's study at the top of the other tower, filled with pages upon pages of notes and drawings. Personally, Desmond thought Altaїr used the Apple far too often, having seen him come out of its golden glow with unfocused, wild eyes several times now.

 

Malik, apparently, thought along the same lines. “This has something to do with that cursed artifact, no? You rely on that thing too much. What if it leads you astray?”

 

“It won't,” Altaїr said with utter conviction. He looked at Malik, intently. “It is vital that _I_ go.”

 

“This isn't talking,” Malik spat, angrily. “You've already decided!”

 

Desmond cleared his throat. “When will you leave?”

 

“Tonight.”

 

So soon? Startled, Desmond looked from one to the other. “And when will you come back?”

 

“As soon as I can.” Altaїr shifted his gaze to him, his jaw working. “I am leaving the order under Malik's command,” he ignored Malik's surprised exclamation, “and I am leaving this in _your_ care.” From his pocket, Altaїr pulled the Apple of Eden and held it out to Desmond. “Take it.”

 

Desmond didn't want to. He avoided the Apple on principle. He wasn't scared of it, but he knew how powerful it was, and how easily it drove people to their ruin. Altaїr was immune to its siren call, at least the part of it that broke free will, and claimed Desmond was, too; they had never put that to the test, however.

 

When Desmond didn't move, Altaїr leaned forward and placed the Apple in front of him.

 

“Desmond,” Malik said quietly, gray eyes dark and not looking at him at all, “leave us alone, please.”

 

\- - -

 

The Apple felt unnaturally heavy in Desmond's hands as he carried it back to his own room. Once there and the door shut behind him, he wondered where he was supposed to put it. Altaїr seemed to carry it around with him wherever he went, but that was a luxury Desmond couldn't afford. He could hardly put it in his pocket, and carrying it around in a satchel would seriously impede his freedom of movement, considering its weight.

 

There were no hidden compartments under the floor, it being solid marble; there were no hidden compartments in the walls, either, them being solid stone. In his trunk, where he stored his clothes? On his bookshelf, displayed for all who happened to step into the room?

 

Desmond slid the Apple under his pillow, for now, and then stood at the side of his bed, staring at the lump it made.

 

The prospect of Altaїr leaving didn't sit well with him, at all. Not only because the Apple was now his responsibility, or because the order would be under Malik's command, who Desmond knew was more than capable of running it. By now, Desmond had formed contacts within Masyaf and even with a few of the villagers, so he wouldn't be alone, either. Most saw him as a particularly inquisitive and solemn child, but there were a few who perhaps guessed that he was truly 'old' beyond his years, and treated him accordingly.

 

There hadn't been a single day, in over a year, when he hadn't spent at least a few hours in Altaїr's company. The man hadn't even left yet and already Desmond was missing him. They had their differences, their fights and their disagreements, but Altaїr had become more of a father to him than William had ever been.

 

“Damn you,” Desmond muttered unhappily. He punched the lump in the middle of his pillow. “This is all your fault.”

 

\- - -

 

The door to Altaїr's room remained shut for the rest of the afternoon. Desmond didn't knock – he had a sneaking suspicion what they were doing in there – and walked about the fortress aimlessly. He was in a pensive mood, for the first time in many months thinking about the circumstances that had brought him to Masyaf, this valley, this _time_.

 

He no longer felt a stranger, but he didn't quite belong, either. The Assassins and scholars treated him with cordiality, but that was a result of Altaїr's claim that Desmond was his son, not something Desmond had achieved for himself. Usually, it didn't bother him.

 

Now, he worried. Slowly and through many, many meetings and proclamations, Altaїr had been changing the order's ironclad traditions. There had been upheavals, Assassins rebelling against what they perceived were unnecessary changes, scholars claiming the Mentor was leading the brotherhood off its intended path. The might of Masyaf, the fearsome reputation the Assassins had throughout the Holy Land, would suffer if they struck from the shadows, and only from there. They would become boogeymen, and what glory was there in hiding?

 

Desmond thought of the Assassins of _his_ time. Most people probably weren't even aware that there _were_ Assassins, an entire order of them that spanned countries, nations, continents.

 

Other changes had been accepted more readily. _Love the children_. The training regiment young Novices were put through was brutal, still, but no parent wanted to treat their child like a stranger. _Love your family_. It was the strongest bond an Assassin had, the one that tethered them to mothers, fathers, siblings, the safest of all havens.

 

_You have the choice._

 

That was the hardest of them all. Being an Assassin wasn't a calling. It wasn't a god-granted right or duty, no preordained path into the future, set in stone. It was a _choice_.

 

With Altaїr gone for who knew how long, would some of the more fundamentalist Assassins try to change things back? Would one of them claim Altaїr a traitor, who'd left the order behind, and attempt to usurp the status of Mentor?

 

 _You're a coward_ , Desmond berated himself. Still, he couldn't help wondering, _But what if?_

 

The title of Mentor wasn't hereditary, it wasn't passed down from father to son. Altaїr wasn't a king, and Desmond wasn't a prince, the crown wouldn't pass seamlessly from one to the other in case Altaїr died. Still, Desmond suspected that if someone attempted to take the title of Mentor while Altaїr was absent, their first target would be _him_ , once Malik was out of the way.

 

“There you are.”

 

Desmond had taken up refuge on one of the small stone balconies near the top of the westernmost guard tower. From here, one had a grand view of the valley and the village. To the right side of the tower was a steep mountain cliff, and the river cascaded over the stone, white-crowned and lively until it reached the valley, where it became tranquil and lazy. It was one of his favorite places in all of Masyaf and the one he tended to seek out when he needed some quiet time for himself, out of sight and earshot from others.

 

Altaїr stood in the arched doorway, shielding his eyes against the setting sun. He wore only his black robe over breeches and hadn't even bothered with boots.

 

“Sulking?” Altaїr asked.

 

“Thinking,” Desmond replied. “It is something I do, from time to time.”

 

Altaїr smirked. “Could've fooled me.” He looked around the balcony. “Mind if I join you?”

 

“Please.”

 

Desmond waited until Altaїr sat down and then crawled into his lap. The man smelled of musk, sweat, and there was something that looked suspiciously like tooth marks on Altaїr's left collar bone. Desmond didn't care. Altaїr's arms settled around him and Altaїr's chin came down on the top of his head. They sat in silence, Desmond soaking up the comfort, the sense of security, something he'd never quite felt or even asked for, from William.

 

“Come back alive,” he said, when the sun was disappearing behind the horizon.

 

Altaїr didn't reply for a long time. “I'm not going to die,” he finally said. “Not while there is still so much to do.”

 

Desmond didn't mean to, but he fell asleep, still wondering about Altaїr's odd choice of words. When he woke, he was back in his room, in his bed, his cheek pressed uncomfortably against the Apple under his pillow. Blearily, Desmond sat up, looking to the dark-clad figure that stood at one of the windows. It was night.

 

“He's gone?”

 

“You can still see him, from here,” Malik replied.

 

Desmond climbed out of bed. He was just tall enough now to be able to look over the windowsill. Malik pointed, and Desmond saw the small figure riding past the boundaries of the village. A cloud drifted past the full moon, and when it was gone, so was Altaїr.

 

Desmond glanced up at Malik, austere and pale in the moonlight. Malik didn't speak, only looked to where Altaїr had vanished, an expression of wistfulness on his face. But there was also anger, or perhaps annoyance; Desmond could read Altaїr quite well by now, but Malik was still something of a puzzle, sometimes.

 

“Does that mean I have to call you 'dad' now?” Desmond asked, trying to lighten the mood.

 

Malik gave a startled laugh, looking down. “Only if you want to completely confuse the rest of Masyaf.” He flicked a finger against Desmond's ear, still grinning. “Or Altaїr, when he gets back.”

 

“I hope that'll be soon.” Quickly, Desmond added, “Not that I don't appreciate your company, but. . .”

 

Malik's grin softened. “I will miss him, too.”

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 13 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

“How cute,” Lucy said acerbically. “Is there any point to this? Or are you trying to bore me to death with stories about domestic bliss?”

 

She was angry, still, and didn't bother to hide it. About twenty minutes ago, there had been movement at the rear of the plane, but when she turned there was no one. The plane's door had shut, they'd started rolling, and she was wondering if Desmond and she were the only passengers, aside from the pilot.

 

“I thought you'd like the full story, not just bits and pieces.” Desmond lounged in his seat, completely relaxed, his hands folded over his belly.

 

What she'd _like_ was to bury her fist in his mild smile. She smarted over his sanctimonious behavior after his demonstration with the Apple and the dagger, partially because he was right. It had been her choice, and she had chosen the Templars – but _after_ the Assassins had cut her loose and left her to fend for herself. They'd still expected her to perform her part, of course, and for a while Lucy had, until it all became too much.

 

Hearing about Desmond's little family idyll in ancient Syria did nothing but remind her of the support she hadn't had, from none of them. It only served to make the bitterness coursing through her that much worse.

 

“I want to know what you have planned for me,” she demanded.

 

“We're taking you back to the United States.” Desmond looked at the Apple, dormant on its pedestal between them. “There is a part you yet have to play, at the end of the world.”

 

“I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in cryptic bullshit at the moment.” Lucy flexed her fingers behind her to keep the circulation going. She hadn't asked to be cuffed in the front again, wanting no more favors from him. “What part? And that's four months from now! Either tell me, or just fucking kill me, I'm tired of listening to your _lies_ -”

 

Desmond's glance flicked upward, past her.

 

A hand came down in front of Lucy, gripping her under the chin and yanking her head back and to the side. On the defensive within a second, she twisted her entire body to the side, following the abrupt motion, to avoid a broken neck. She glared up, expecting to see William, or perhaps even Rebecca. Probably William, considering the man's eagerness to do away with her.

 

Instead, she was looking at Desmond.

 

But, no: it wasn't Desmond, not at a second glance. The similarities were astounding, and a small part of Lucy's mind cataloged them clinically while the rest of her froze in disbelief. But it was the dissimilarities that really caught her attention. The eyes were darker, lacking that disturbing amber tint. The skin was fairer, the hair slightly longer than Desmond wore it, the mouth wider, more generous, even if at the moment it was drawn into a disdainful sneer. And there was more than a five o'clock shadow, too, a meticulously trimmed beard accentuating this man's strong jaw.

 

Lucy knew him. She had seen him – not through Desmond's DNA memories, but through the man's who had been Desmond's predecessor in the Animus Project. His name slammed into her, along with a plethora of memories: Ezio Auditore da Firenze. Italy, 15th century. Blood on walls. Subject 16, Desmond's predecessor, succumbing to the effects of the Animus.

 

Ezio. Ezio was dead.

 

“You're dead,” Lucy gasped, only it came out as garbled noise, his strong grip painfully squishing her cheeks against her teeth. “You're fucking _dead_!”

 

“Such a pretty lady,” he drawled, a strong accent rolling each word over his tongue, making love to vowel and consonant, “but such an ugly mouth.”

 

He let go of her – pushed her away, really, the grip on her jaw turning lightning-fast into a palm at the back of her neck – and walked to the empty seat next to Desmond's, sliding into it. Casually, he took one of Desmond's hands, bringing it up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the knuckles. He lowered their hands, then, to the armrest between the seats, and looked at Lucy.

 

Lucy said, “I'm going crazy.” She laughed, a helpless, broken sound, strange to her ears.

 

“Would that make it easier, or harder?” Desmond asked, sounding genuinely interested.

 

Lucy didn't know what to say to that. She didn't even know what to think. The Templars had a rather detailed biography on Ezio Auditore da Firenze, mostly because like Altaїr, he'd left such a lasting impression. They had Ezio's codex, written by his own hand, under lock and key after it had been retrieved from its hiding place in Moscow. He had been _devastating_ to Templar rule across Italy; in fact, Ezio had been devastating to the Templars wherever he went.

 

It was something they had in common, Ezio, Altaїr and Desmond.

 

But only Desmond should have been alive in this time.

 

Lucy was still laughing. “Is Altaїr going to turn up, too?” At this point, that wouldn't even surprise her. “I'm crazy,” she concluded, slumping back against her seat. Her cheeks hurt where Ezio had gripped her. She looked at Desmond, at Desmond's and Ezio's hands on the armrest, thought, briefly, of the implications _that_ had, and laughed again. “I'm already dead. I'm dead, and this is some hell, some sort of afterlife.”

 

“I could stab you,” Ezio offered. He lifted his free hand, the loose, long sleeve of his black button-down shirt falling back to reveal the hidden blade he wore. “If you are already dead, it should not bother you.”

 

She was in a plane, with a man who had gone back in time and come back to the present, and another man who should have been dead. Lucy's laughter trailed off into hysterical giggles. Perhaps she wasn't dead, but only sleeping – she had been tired even before they changed planes. Perhaps there had been something in the water Shaun had given her, some hallucinogen.

 

Desmond had probably felt the same way she did, when he'd woken to find himself in the company of Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad, his long-dead ancestor.

 

Now he sat across from her, holding hands with yet another long-dead ancestor.

 

Oh, god.

 

“You should rest,” Desmond said. “We have a long flight ahead of us.”

 

Lucy shook her head. How could he even think she'd be able to sleep?

 

“A little help, then, with that.” Desmond reached across the table, past the Apple, something small, gray and cylindrical in his hand, aimed at Lucy. “Good night.”

 

A small puff of gas hit her. She reared back, but it was too late: she'd already inhaled, she was already sinking further into the seat, slipping into chemistry-induced sleep. Ezio reaching up to the control panel above his head and flipping a switch there was the last thing she saw.

 

\- - -

**Portugal, Setember 13 th, 2012**

**\- - -**

 

Her sleep was dreamless and deep, the kind of sleep brought on by utter exhaustion. Her limbs felt leaden when she woke, and something had crawled into her mouth and died there, from the taste of it. Lucy didn't open her eyes at once, taking inventory. She lay on her side, her feet hanging over the edge of the seat. Her hands were still bound at the wrists, but in front of her, and she'd tucked them under her chin. She had a crick in her neck and her head was pounding dully, from dehydration most likely. There hadn't been anything to drink for her since they boarded the second plane.

 

Desmond had gassed her with something. Under normal circumstances, waking to that knowledge would have immediately brought her to her feet, ready to fight, but Lucy couldn't summon the will to move. She couldn't even summon anger. It wasn't like he was going to molest her, she mused idly, his sexual preferences made plain by Ezio's behavior.

 

Perhaps that, too, was something he'd picked up from Altaїr. Secretly gay Assassins who'd nevertheless found the time to father a bloodline somehow.

 

Oh well.

 

Considering the things Lucy had heard and seen over the last hours, this revelation was quite meaningless.

 

The plane wasn't humming around her anymore. She opened her eyes.

 

“We're refueling,” Desmond said, softly.

 

A large bottle of water stood on the table between the seats, next to a folded newspaper. Lucy sat up, discovering that she'd either slept too much or not enough; she was lightheaded but her body felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds. With both hands, she reached for the water, unscrewed the cap and drank.

 

Desmond sat across from her, sideways in the seat by the window, one leg up on the table. Ezio lay against him, his back to Desmond's chest, apparently asleep.

 

The Apple was gone from the table.

 

“Where are we?” Lucy asked, once she was marginally certain it wouldn't come out as a dry croak. She couldn't see much outside of the plane's bull's eye windows, only nondescript buildings, gray and square, the kind found at airports around the world.

 

“Portugal. Last bus stop before the long flight across the North Atlantic.” Desmond pointed at the newspaper. “You might want to look at that.”

 

She unfolded the newspaper. It was in Spanish, a language she was passably good in. Immediately, the headlines sprang out at her, **ABSTERGO INDUSTRIES INVOLVED IN FORBIDDEN HUMAN TRIALS** printed in large letters across the entire first page. The smaller print below it was a teaser, a short description of how an unnamed group of vigilantes had broken into the Italian facility and liberated human test subjects held there against their will.

 

“You didn't,” Lucy said flatly.

 

“We totally did.” Desmond's grin redefined 'smug'. “It's already hit global news.”

 

Lucy had been wondering what happened to the people Abstergo had been holding in Italy. She'd assumed Desmond had either killed them, or the Assassins had taken them along when they left. Lucy hastily opened the newspaper, discovering the follow-up spread across pages 2 through 5. She recognized some of the people on the photos heading each **WITNESS ACCOUNT**.

 

Abstergo wasn't only interested in Assassin DNA, though it was admittedly their main objective for the Animus Project. There had been other people at the Italian facility, held for ancestors who'd been painters, inventors, scientists, adventurers – the kind of people who tended to either accumulate riches or knowledge or both. The world was riddled with forgotten treasure chests, ripe for the taking, if one had the means to find the keys.

 

There was a secondary headline, on page 3.

 

 **ABSTERGO FACILITIES ACROSS THE GLOBE NOW IN THE FOCUS OF INVESTIGATIONS**.

 

And on page 4, **DISTURBING FINDS AFTER EXPLOSION AT ABSTERGO-RELATED COSMETICS LABORATORY IN CHINA**.

 

“The press were already on their way when we left. . . and we left enough behind to leave absolutely no doubt,” Desmond explained. “And not just in Italy.” At her incredulous stare, he chuckled. Ezio muttered a complaint, shifting against him. “The Templars aren't the only ones capable of hitting several places at the same time.”

 

If there was one force on the planet worse than a raging army, it was a raging press. And that wasn't all of it. The words blurring before her eyes, Lucy imagined the storm of aggravation that would hit the internet, once enough people had read the news. She imagined the angry relatives of the test subjects held in Italy – test subjects who had been born all over the world – turning up and demanding answers. She imagined the authorities that would inevitably get involved, the investigators, professionals or freelancers.

 

People like Shaun Hastings, people who could add two and two together and then started digging for _more_.

 

And then published what they found.

 

Lucy knew how these things could spiral out of control. She'd worked for Abstergo long enough, been one of them long enough, to know that more than half of what happened behind secret laboratory doors and impressive office buildings bearing the Abstergo logo wasn't sanctioned by any law in the world.

 

She set the newspaper down, once more at a loss for words. The ramifications for Abstergo's public standing would be catastrophic, but the ingenuity of involving the public, something usually not done by the order, impressed her.

 

Finally, she said, “I didn't know there were enough Assassins left for a wide-spread attack.”

 

“Just enough for it to count,” Desmond admitted. “I've been planning this for a _very_ long time.”

 

“ _We_ have been planning this for a very long time,” a sleepy voice added.

 

Lucy's gaze wandered to Ezio. His eyes were open, she noticed, and he must have been listening quietly to their conversation for a while now. He looked completely at ease, relaxed against his human cushion, his lover. After a moment, he looked back at her.

 

“We would have seen you, too, in Desmond's memories,” Lucy guessed. Not guessed. Knew. “If we'd gone further in the Animus.”

 

Ezio nodded. “Eventually.” He grinned saucily. “Thankfully, it wasn't a little boy I got saddled with.”

 

Desmond socked him in the shoulder. “Careful, old man.”

 

“You're older than me,” Ezio pointed out, still grinning.

 

Lucy was confused again, but suddenly the banter made sense. Desmond hadn't specified how old he had been when Altaїr used the Apple to drag him backward through time. He had mentioned working at the bar, however, so she could guess it had been sometime during his early twenties. Add sixteen years to that. . .

 

“I'm 39 in real years,” Desmond said, a little sheepishly. “I was 23 when Altaїr nabbed me. That was also the age I eventually came back to, here.”

 

Ezio looked to be somewhere in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. It was hard to tell, with the beard. “Gah,” Lucy said, rubbing at her temples. “I'm going to need a flow chart to sort this all out.”

 

She was going to need extensive _therapy_ , if by some miracle she came out alive. She still didn't know what Desmond was planning or what her supposed role was. There hadn't been any explanation for Ezio's presence, or how they had met.

 

There was so much more she had to think about, but any more thinking and her head was going to explode. 23? That meant he'd had two years, give and take a few months, to plan tonight's events. Plus sixteen, if he'd started earlier.

 

She huffed out a breath, giving up on the mathematics for now. “I want to hear more, if you're willing to tell.”

 

“I thought you'd be a little more interested in the _future_ , right now.” Desmond cocked his head at her.

 

“I want this to make sense,” Lucy said bluntly. “I get the feeling it's not going to make any, until I know the whole story. And it's not like I'm going anywhere, currently.”

 

Ezio sat up, stretching gracefully. “I'm going to get us something to eat. It's no good, listening to that tale on an empty stomach.” He looked at Lucy. “Any preferences?”

 

“Edible and not poisoned,” she replied. If they were going to feed her, she wasn't going to be picky.

 

“Ah, dear lady,” Ezio said with a grin, “poisoning you. . . now _there's_ an idea.” He wandered off, raising his voice, “Don't start without me, Des. I want to hear this, too.”

 

As soon as Ezio was out of earshot, Lucy leaned over the table, lowering her voice just to be on the safe side. The gay thing didn't bother her, but, “You're fucking your own ancestor. How incredibly creepy is that?”

 

He shrugged. “Go back far enough and we're all related, somehow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes an axe to the actual AC timeline and reduces it to a bloodied stain on the ground* There. Done with that. 
> 
> Next chapter will be ass-long, and focus almost entirely on Desmond's further adventures in Syria. I realize by now I've probably confused the ever-loving frigg out of everyone with that constant back and forth between times and POVs. . . but bear with me.


	5. FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes of graphic violence in this chapter. *points to Explicit rating* Don't say I didn't warn you. 
> 
> Also, for the geography buffs: I know CRAP ALL about Tallahassee, Florida. I live in Germany. I'm pulling all the information I need for the story, as far as geography is concerned, from the internet. So if there are any glaring errors. . . it's not really my fault. *nods firmly* It's the 'net's fault; that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

_**Chapter FIVE** _

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, Autumn / Winter 1193**

\- - -

 

Following Altaїr's abrupt departure, Desmond sulked for a week. There was no other word for it. He was convinced that Altaїr riding off into the night was the last he'd ever seen of him. He felt betrayed and abandoned, and hated himself for feeling that way. It was childish, and he _wasn't_ a child, no matter what he looked like.

 

But it had been nice to pretend to be one, now and then, and that realization pulled him out of his funk at the end of the week. Only when Altaїr was gone did Desmond realize how much he'd come to rely on his presence, how much he had enjoyed reverting back to a behavior he hadn't been able to indulge in, at the Farm.

 

William Miles wasn't a monster; he hadn't molested or physically abused Desmond. He had simply never been quite _there_ , more focused on raising an Assassin than a son. When Desmond thought of him, he thought of William as one would think of a distant relative.

 

When Desmond thought of _father_ he thought of Altaїr.

 

That father was gone, for now. Altaїr's last message, carried by pigeon, shortly detailed his arrival in Acre, where he would start his search for a man named Armand Bouchart. Bouchart was the Templars' current Grandmaster and Robert de Sablé's successor, and there had been a hastily scribbled line about an island called Cyprus which the Templars had purchased from King Richard the Lionheart.

 

There had been no more messages.

 

Summer turned into autumn, and Desmond hit a growth spurt that had Malik looking at him with wide eyes one morning, over breakfast. They kept the tradition of taking meals in Altaїr's room down the hallway from Desmond's, a little awkwardly at first. Desmond liked Malik well enough, but their primary connection had been Altaїr; with that gone, it was as if they were only now truly getting to know each other.

 

“I believe I must call for the tailor,” Malik said, after a long look at Desmond's breeches, which were a good deal shorter than they had been before. He glanced at the top of Desmond's head. “And the barber. That mop grows any longer and you can start tying it up in ribbons.”

 

When Malik was gone, after breakfast, Desmond undressed, took a deep breath, and faced the mirror that stood between a bookshelf and the wooden mannequin Altaїr used as a weapon stand. It was something he had consciously avoided up to now, after that one time on the first day of his arrival. When Desmond envisioned himself he saw what he had been: an adult. He'd feared that facing his younger reflection would somehow change that.

 

The boy that looked back at him out of the mirror wasn't the toddler he'd been, the day he arrived. His hair was longer, flopping into his eyes. His face had become narrower at the chin. His body still felt wrongly proportioned to him, but not quite as much as it had before; he was still a child, but the baby fat had begun to melt off his limbs.

 

This was his body. Already he could see traces of the man he'd been, re-emerging.

 

It was time he regained full control over it.

 

\- - -

 

“Desmond! I swear, if you fall down. . .” Malik's angry shout trailed off. So did the concerned muttering of the pair of guards, who were responsible for alerting Malik in the first place. After a few beats of silence, Malik asked, “How in the world did you get up _there_?”

 

“I climbed.”

 

Wasn't that obvious? Desmond tried not to let show in how much of a state of panic he was, right now. In the history of stupid ideas, this one had to range at the very top of the list. Sitting astride one of the arched beams that ran beneath the domed roof of the westernmost guard tower, muscles beginning to cramp from the effort it took to keep himself where he was, Desmond glanced down. The tower was hollow, used only for the view it yielded over the surrounding area. A spiraling stairway ran along its inner wall, just wide enough to allow two grown men to walk side by side.

 

The ground was very far away.

 

He hadn't thought it through, which appeared to be something he was spectacularly good at; in his self-set quest to regain control and flexibility, Desmond had been climbing over, into and through everything the fortress of Masyaf offered, much to the displeasure of the people who suddenly found themselves faced with a boy dangling from their ceiling.

 

This morning, after using the bookshelves in the libraries as exercise furniture, one of the scholars had finally snapped. The poor man nearly suffered a stroke, looking up from his tea to see Desmond clinging to an iron chandelier right above his head, and then grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic, pulled him down and literally threw him out the door with the firm instruction to find his amusement elsewhere.

 

The guard tower hadn't been Desmond's first choice.

 

Then one of the stable boys had chased Desmond out of the stables when his acrobatics began to unsettle the horses, and he'd stood in the courtyard, miffed, until his searching gaze settled on the guard tower. And instead of using the stairs as he usually did when he wanted to get to one of the small stone balconies at the top, Desmond had set out to climb up on the _outside_ of the stairs, and he hadn't thought to stop. He'd reached the top of the stairs and balanced on the bannister there, looking up.

 

By that time Desmond had already been exhausted. He'd ignored it.

 

The jump from the bannister to one of the not-so-far-away beams that ran along the ceiling had been an easy one. He'd just never considered how he would get back _down_. He couldn't jump back from the beam to the bannister, the angle being all wrong. He couldn't swing himself over, either – he'd tried already and nearly lost his hold. It was his terrified shriek, when he nearly fell, that had alerted the guards.

 

Desmond looked pleadingly at Malik, who stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Help?”

 

Malik groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He said something to the guards, who left, and began to climb the stairs. Reaching the top, he cocked his head at Desmond.

 

“I should just leave you there,” he said. “See how you get down on your own.”

 

Desmond had seen Malik annoyed and testy – mostly at Altaїr – and contemplative. He'd never seen him truly angry. It was an intimidating sight, Malik's gray eyes narrowed to slits, his brows lowered dangerously over them. His anger was different from Altaїr's, darker, sharper. He'd had a lot of time to hone it, on the edges of Altaїr's behavior, on events from the time before Desmond's arrival, before Altaїr became the Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood.

 

Sometimes, Desmond wondered how they'd ended up as a couple at all. He suspected Altaїr had left out a few of the juicier bits, when he finally told Desmond how the Apple of Eden came into his possession.

 

“I was just -”

 

“Playing with your life? Being a nuisance everywhere?” Every word cut. “Masyaf isn't your personal playground, Desmond. I'm supposed to be sitting in a meeting, at the moment. Instead, I've had to deal with complaints from five people, and they all involved you, and now this.”

 

Desmond shifted his grip on the smooth stone of the beam, to relieve the ache in his fingers. His thighs and calves were downright hurting, from the position he'd been in for more than half an hour now, clinging to the beam like an octopus. He didn't know what to say – and what he _wanted_ to say would only make Malik angrier.

 

He swallowed down hurt pride and embarrassment. “Help me down, please. You can yell at me later, but I really need to get down from here, now.”

 

Malik sighed, shoulders sagging. He eyed the bannister and the roof that wasn't so very far away from his head – for an adult. Wordless, he shed his robe, and with a grace Desmond was suddenly insanely jealous of Malik jumped on top of the bannister and balanced there.

 

“Slide backwards, towards me,” he instructed. He leaned his shoulder against the end of the beam and reached out along it with his one arm. “Slowly.”

 

Desmond did as told. He had almost no feeling left in his fingers by the time Malik grabbed him by the arm, but at least he wasn't in immediate danger of plunging to his death any longer. Malik leaned back, tugging him off the beam, and dropped back to the top landing of the stairs, swinging him over the bannister at the same time.

 

Adrenaline faded fast, leaving Desmond lightheaded and dropping him to his knees where he stood. He expected Malik to immediately start berating him, but the man only picked up his robe and pulled it back on, shaking its folds into their proper positions.

 

“Come,” Malik said. He turned to the stairs. When Desmond didn't immediately follow, he stopped and looked at him over one shoulder, eyes still narrowed. “I'm not Altaїr. Don't expect me to cuddle you.”

 

Desmond clenched his teeth around a heated retort, getting back to his feet. His knees were trembling, and his heart was still hammering. He wanted nothing more than to sit down again and wait until he'd regained his breath, but asking for that was out of the question.

 

Desmond followed in Malik's wake, down the stairs and across the courtyard. The two guards who had discovered him clinging to the beam were there, giving him odd looks, which Desmond ignored. He eyed the open fortress gates, considering for a heartbeat to make a break for it. It wouldn't be half as embarrassing as trailing after Malik like a beaten dog.

 

“Don't even think about it,” Malik warned. He hadn't even turned around, heading for the main building. “If you don't want me to treat you like a child, don't act like one.”

 

That stung. “I'm not acting like a child!” He had to jog to keep up with Malik's long strides, something he thought Malik was doing on purpose. “I was training.”

 

“For what?” Malik glanced down at him. “Finding the fastest way to end up as a smear on the ground?”

 

“To get some control! Some reflexes. _Balance._ ” Desmond glanced around and lowered his voice, although there weren't that many people around them. “I have to start _somewhere_. You guys can't honestly expect me to sit quietly in a corner until I'm taller!”

 

Malik stopped at the landing in front of the fortress' doors, and gave him a mildly surprised look. “ _That's_ what you were doing?”

 

“No,” Desmond said, lathering on the sarcasm as thickly as he could, “it's my hobby to annoy the crap out of others. I've made it my life's goal to make yours a living hell, _obviously_.”

 

Malik just looked at him. Then he chuckled, and said wistfully, “You remind me of Kadar. There wasn't a day when I didn't have to get him out of some tree, when we were younger.”

 

Desmond wasn't going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. The events that had brought about the untimely death of Malik's younger brother, and especially the role Altaїr played in them, were part of the reason Desmond wondered at their relationship. It wasn't like Altaїr had slit Kadar's throat himself, but in Malik's stead, Desmond would have retaliated at the next best opportunity and murdered Altaїr in cold blood.

 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, clenched into fists. Anger and frustration were battling for supremacy over him; perhaps _that_ was something else he should work on gaining control over, too.

 

Malik put his hand between Desmond shoulder blades and pushed him gently through the doors. “Come on. Inside.”

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“I'm going back to my meeting, and you're coming with me.” Malik steered him through the grand hall. “Consider it your punishment. You get to sit still and listen while the adults are talking.”

 

Desmond groaned inwardly, but put up no resistance. He was done with climbing and running around, for today.

 

Meetings usually took place in the Mentor's study, behind closed doors. In Altaїr's absence, presiding over them fell to Malik. Senior Assassins responsible for different parts of Masyaf's daily routine gathered and discussed everything that was of concern, from the training schedules of Novices to the missions undertaken by Master Assassins. There were also more mundane matters that needed going over, such as acquiring new horses, or the state of the food stores in the fortress' underbelly.

 

It wasn't exactly breathtaking excitement, to sit through one of those meetings.

 

Desmond made himself scarce the moment he set foot in the door, heading for the corner where Altaїr's desk stood in the far back and avoiding the men seated on comfortable cushions in the middle of the spacious study. His ears were burning. He could vividly imagine the guards bursting into the meeting and proclaiming they'd discovered the revered Mentor's son clinging to a beam in one of Masyaf's towers.

 

He climbed into Altaїr's chair, reading through the notes that still lay scattered on the large desk and doodling on an empty sheet, but after a while Desmond couldn't help listening in. A tense, loaded atmosphere lay over the seated Assassins. Malik stood out among them with his black robe, black hair; almost everyone else's hood was up and covering their faces.

 

“We should not doubt these reports,” an Assassin to Malik's left was saying. “Parts of the army splintered off and have since been causing trouble throughout the Holy Land. The Lionheart's word no longer holds the power it once did.”

 

“Mere criminals,” another retorted. “There is nothing we have to fear from them.”

 

“Says you,” yet another Assassin shot back. His hood was down. He had closely cropped black hair and a beard that looked as though a hedgehog had exploded in his face. Desmond recognized him: it was Rauf, who usually oversaw the training of new recruits. “If this were just a small group I'd agree with you, but we've been hearing of entire villages that were sacked along the coast. Ramleh was overrun.”

 

Desmond vaguely recalled that name as belonging to a city west of Jerusalem. Malik's lessons in reading and writing had started with deciphering maps.

 

“What numbers are we talking about?” Malik asked.

 

“At least a thousand men in arms. Soldiers and knights both,” Rauf said. “That's not counting the scavengers usually following in the wake of these splinter groups.”

 

Agitated muttering followed Rauf's words, hooded and bare heads turning to one another. Desmond wished he'd chosen a better spot, suddenly curious. He knew who Richard the Lionheart was; he wasn't a history buff, but growing up at the Farm had included regular schooling in a broad field of subjects. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that while Masyaf was a remote region in west Syria, at peace, most of the rest of the Holy Land was still under siege.

 

“They are not headed in our direction,” Rauf continued, and after a meaningful pause added, “yet. We should start calling back the men who are not absolutely needed elsewhere.”

 

All heads turned to Malik.

 

“I must think on this,” Malik said.

 

“Don't think too long, as you usually do,” an Assassin who up to now hadn't contributed to the discussion said. “Otherwise the Mentor might return to a Masyaf in ruins. _If_ he ever returns, when he's done chasing ghosts.”

 

“Swami.” There was steel in the tone of Malik's voice. “Mind your tongue.”

 

All heads turned to Desmond, who pretended he hadn't heard anything and continued doodling. But his thoughts were whirling. That had been downright hostile, not only toward Malik, but also toward Altaїr. Chasing ghosts? Altaїr was dealing with a Templar threat in Acre, not taking a sightseeing-trip across the Holy Land! Were the rest of the Assassins truly so unaware of that ever-present threat as to doubt Altaїr's intentions?

 

The meeting quickly came to an end after that. Desmond tried to catch a look at Swami's face, but the man headed straight for the exit, head down. Malik shut the door when the last Assassin had left and exhaled slowly. He rolled his shoulders, undoubtedly to relieve some tension, and came to the desk.

 

“It's not a ghost chase,” Desmond muttered. He put down the pen.

 

“I know that. You know that.” Malik shrugged. He sat on the edge of the desk. “Most everyone knows it, too, but there are those who doubt.”

 

“Who is this Swami guy?”

 

“He was a friend of Abbas'.” Malik looked sideways at Desmond, knowingly. “Personally, I think Swami is a weak-minded fool, but that's just between you and me.”

 

Desmond _still_ hadn't found out what Altaїr had done with Abbas' corpse, all those months ago. He wasn't sure he wanted to know – he'd gone over every inch of the garden entrance and the space on either side of it, but hadn't found any hidden latches or trapdoors, or anything really, that explained the disappearance of a fully grown man's body.

 

“And this army splinter group thing?”

 

“Expected.” At Desmond's questioning look, Malik explained, “It's a common phenomenon. Sooner or later, the lords that provide the soldiers for a king's army will want their own share of the glory, or the soldiers decide they're done serving under the lords or the king. King Richard's truce with Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn over Jerusalem, last year, may have contributed also. I'm rather surprised this hasn't happened sooner.”

 

Desmond eyed him. “So _we_ have nothing to worry about?”

 

“Not yet,” Malik said, slowly enough to let on that perhaps there _was_ something to worry about. “Masyaf is generally not considered worth sacking – we're too far away, and what do we have, that is worth stealing? The wealth of Masyaf lies in what we _do_ here, not in what we possess.”

 

Unbidden, Desmond had to think of the Apple of Eden.

 

Malik continued, “For now, that splinter group is sticking to the coastline, according to the reports we have. They might just disband before they become a threat, or stray too close to Jerusalem, where the Saracens will decimate them if they make a move toward the city.”

 

“I see.”

 

Malik rose and arranged his robe. Offhandedly, he said, “ _You_ , however, do have something to worry about.”

 

Reflexively, Desmond made himself smaller in the chair. He'd expected something like this – not that Malik was going to make him stand in the corner or anything, to reflect upon his mistakes, but he'd known that being forced to sit through the meeting wasn't the end of his earlier adventure.

 

“I'm starting your training,” Malik said.

 

\- - -

 

Autumn marched slowly toward winter, and Desmond forgot all about that afternoon meeting.

 

He was busy now, from the crack of dawn to the late evening hours, and fell into bed each night feeling he truly deserved rest. Up until then, he'd more or less gotten out of bed when he felt like it, which often coincided with the morning meal served in Altaїr's room. Now, by the time breakfast was served, Desmond was already awake for three or four hours.

 

Malik started him on a series of balancing exercises. He'd felt slightly silly, at first, standing on one foot on a low tree branch in the garden, or kneeling on one knee on the narrow sidewall of a hay cart, his free leg held out for balance, but after a while the exercises paid off and he began to feel less clumsy. After two months, he could spend half an hour standing on Malik's shoulders while Malik walked about at a normal pace, grinning at the perplexed looks they received, while Malik plainly ignored them.

 

Then came gaining insight into the art of falling. Evading an opponent's attack meant nothing if afterward you landed flat on your ass, or worse, your head. Desmond recalled falling off that tall rock all too well – granted, he'd landed on his arm, and not his ass or head, but it was the same principle.

 

“You're still growing, so we'll start slowly,” Malik said, when Desmond protested doing something as simple as cartwheels. “We must make sure not to stunt your growth, and avoid injuries that cripple you. Your career as an Assassin would be over.”

 

They were in the garden. The days were notably shorter and the winds cooler; the sun was still warm, however. Winter was coming, but it wasn't here yet.

 

Desmond glanced at Malik's pinned-up sleeve. “Yours wasn't.”

 

“It was.” Malik sat on a stone bench in the rear of the garden. “I don't know how things are handled in your time, but here, a man is considered damaged if he loses a limb, and it doesn't matter why he lost it.”

 

Desmond drew a face. “That's not fair. You're not damaged! I've seen you train with Rauf, you're more than capable of holding your own.”

 

Malik twitched a smile. “Thank you for the compliment.” He grew more serious instantly. “It is only natural to want to protect the weaker members of a group, unless you're completely without a heart. But that in itself is a weakness. An enemy could exploit that. And the other Assassins do perceive me as weaker than them – they might _know_ I can fight, but knowing and letting go of something that has been taught and ingrained in them for all of their lives. . . well.”

 

Desmond came to the stone bench and sat down, dangling his feet.

 

“Is that what all the arguing's been about?” he asked. Malik had spent almost all of the last two weeks in meetings, and even when he wasn't in the Mentor's study people walked up to him, Assassins mostly but sometimes even scholars. “They're doubting you, aren't they?”

 

Malik elbowed him, hard enough to nearly send him tumbling off the bench, and gave him a mock glare. “Someone has been eavesdropping, it seems.”

 

Desmond grumbled, rubbing at his arm. “I wouldn't call it eavesdropping, if those 'conversations' can be heard through _closed doors_ because the participants are shouting.” He fidgeted a little. “Well?”

 

“I can assure you, that has nothing to do with my arm, or lack thereof,” Malik replied, after a long pause. “Al Mualim was blind in one eye, that didn't stop him from being our Mentor for decades.”

 

“Then why?”

 

“Altaїr has been gone for too long.” Malik stared off into the distance, his expression clouded. “It was a mistake, leaving so soon after gaining the title of Mentor. I am _not_ the Mentor. By current standards I'm not even a true Assassin, but he left me in charge of the order, and there are people who disagree with the changes he's been introducing. Their voices are getting louder and louder, each day that he is gone.”

 

Assaulted by an unexpected wave of guilt, Desmond looked away. He'd been so busy with his exercises and so caught up in them that he'd. . . he had not forgotten about Altaїr, but stopped missing him, mostly. He still _missed_ him, but not the way he had before.

 

In fact, now that he thought about it, Desmond realized he was even a little bit angry at Altaїr. He'd left, suddenly and with an explanation that could hardly be called more than half-assed.

 

And now he was gone, for over half a year already.

 

As if to make it worse, Malik said, “I don't even know if the fool's still alive.”

 

Desmond swallowed; there was a lump in his throat. “So. . . just theoretically. Those people who disagree. . .”

 

“You don't have to worry about them,” Malik said quickly. “Altaїr's position as Mentor is safe, unless someone stages a coup, and they'd think twice about _that_ , if they value their lives. There are just as many who welcome the changes.”

 

“But what if -”

 

“Desmond.” Malik turned on the bench, facing him. “They'd have to go through me, to get to you. That will not happen.”

 

Desmond wanted to point out that worry for his personal safety wasn't quite why he'd brought it up; he worried for Malik, too. He worried about the state of peace he'd experienced in Masyaf, regardless of the upheavals concerning his own person. And, not so surprisingly, he worried for the Assassins themselves, who up to now had always struck him as a more cohesive and _harmonious_ group than the one he'd grown up with, in his time.

 

But memory came like a slap to the face, putting a swift end to that line of thinking and the explanation already on the tip of Desmond's tongue.

 

Altaїr had said those very same words to him, the first day.

 

“He said that, too.” Desmond slipped off the bench, unable to bring himself to look at Malik. He wanted to be anywhere else but here, now. _Right_ now. “And then he left.”

 

He ran inside, ignoring Malik's surprised, concerned call.

 

That night, after Malik finally stopped knocking on his door, Desmond took out the Apple of Eden. He kept it in an unassuming leather satchel between his straw-filled mattress and the bed frame; he hadn't held or even looked at it since Altaїr handed it to him.

 

Now he mapped it with his fingertips, following the decorative pattern or ancient language, or whatever it was that had been engraved on its surface. There were no hidden buttons to press. If were was a command, verbal or mental, that activated it, Altaїr had left without telling him. In fact, in its current, dormant state, it was absolutely useless to Desmond, unless he threw it at someone.

 

He set it before him on a pillow, studying it by the light of the candle he'd lit.

 

Altaїr must have spent days, weeks, if not longer, like this. He must have followed the confusing jumble of imagery Desmond had experienced in the Apple's grip from the beginning to the end, until he finally arrived at the point where he realized that all his training, his fighting, his thorny road to redemption and eventual ascension to the title of Mentor, meant nothing, in the grander scheme of things.

 

Nothing mattered, if everything was going to stop once the fiery end of the world rolled around, even if was going to happen almost a thousand years from now.

 

What a sobering, disappointing revelation that must have been: to know that eventually, the Templars would get a hold of a man named Desmond Miles, deserter, _bartender_ , and through him acquire a map that showed other Pieces of Eden, equally as powerful as the Apple – a map Altaїr _himself_ had unlocked, rather accidentally, when he fought and killed Al Mualim. Then treachery. Animus. Fighting. More memories. Keys. Temples. Juno. Minerva. Jupiter. Vaults. A man named Ezio – the Prophet. The end of the road – death.

 

Desmond's death.

 

The last of Altaїr's line, sacrificing himself to save the world, while possibly unleashing something worse than solar flares upon it at the same moment.

 

Juno.

 

Desmond knew all about that. He had needed months, literally, to accept that his death _would_ have occurred two years down the road, had Altaїr not somehow convinced the Apple to drag him back through time. Altaїr's plan was as simple as it was ingenious: grab the descendant. Train him. Prepare him. _For you to shape and mold, Son of None_.

 

And then?

 

Desmond didn't know.

 

The Apple had generously poured everything into him but the one thing Desmond needed the most: a solution. What did it matter, if Altaїr trained him now and then sent him back, if it _still_ ended with him dying? He could return to his time a super-special, time-traveling ninja, and he'd still face the point where he'd have to make that horrible choice.

 

To let the world burn, literally, coming out as one of the few survivors.

 

Or to save it, in the hopes that mankind could battle Juno.

 

Desmond already knew how he would choose. No one in their right mind could justify the death of millions of people, so a select few could survive to start all over again. It just wasn't _right_.

 

No, there had to be something more. Something the Apple had kept from him, or Altaїr hadn't told him.

 

“I want an answer,” Desmond said to the Apple. “There's something I'm missing, and I want to know what it is.”

 

The Apple remained dormant. Eventually, tired, frustrated, Desmond put it back in its satchel and hid it again. He blew out the candle, and went to sleep.

 

\- - -

**North Atlantic Ocean, September 13 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

“I'm ready to drop,” Desmond murmured. For the last fifteen minutes, he'd spoken more and more softly, until Lucy had to lean over the table again to hear what he was saying. “Sorry.”

 

Ezio pulled him close, kissing the side of Desmond's head. The low-voiced conversation that followed was in Italian, another language Lucy was fluent in – she had lived in Italy for the last couple of years, after all – but the dialect was odd. It was old Italian, she guessed, something regional, probably from around where Ezio had grown up. She could understand a few words, but somehow listening in felt wrong; she looked at the table instead, at the discarded sandwich and candy bar wrappings that littered it.

 

Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw Ezio cup Desmond's jaw, their lips moving in a slow kiss. Desmond looked as though he was already half-asleep. They were completely ignoring her.

 

Then Ezio rose. “This way, pretty lady. Take your water bottle. You might be there for a few hours. I want some time alone with him.”

 

'There' was a section toward the rear of the plane. Lucy preceded Ezio through a door that had obviously been reinforced and saw another door at the end of the section, similarly enhanced. There were a few seats, but no tables.

 

Ezio motioned at the seats. “Rest, sleep, meditate, do whatever it is you Templars do to pass the time.”

 

She thought of the blade still hidden in her boot heel. Her hands were cuffed in the front with plastic binders. It would be the work of thirty seconds to get out of them, once she was no longer under their watchful attention.

 

“Is this a test?” Lucy asked, turning to Ezio, who leaned in the doorway. Past him, she could see Desmond, his head buried in his arms on the table. “You're leaving me in here, alone?”

 

“And where would you go?” Ezio's shoulders rose in a careless shrug. He was broader around the shoulders than Desmond, Lucy noticed. He was broader all around and probably a tad taller, too. “Out the windows? I wish you good fortune with that.”

 

He'd been cordial to her, but it was easy to sense the hostility underlying his easy smiles and Italian charm. Ezio's hatred of Templars was legendary.

 

Lucy took a leap of faith. “The Assassins who searched me didn't do a very good job. I have a knife.”

 

He nodded. “And I have no reservations whatsoever to kill you with it, should you somehow make it through this nice steel-enforced door I'm standing in, at the present. And like I said, should you decide to take out one of the windows, I wish you luck. I hear a human body will literally be ripped apart, if it hits the ocean from the height we're flying at, if you don't get sucked into the engines, first.”

 

They eyed each other for a moment. Lucy said, “I can't help thinking that this _is_ a test, and that this entire thing, kidnapping me, taking me back to America, is an attempt to make me, excuse the choice of terminology, repent my sins.”

 

Ezio made a sound in the back of his throat. “Hmm. And if it were?”

 

“I think I would feel insulted,” Lucy said, honest. “The Assassins aren't suited to guide anyone, anywhere, except into chaos. I stand by my beliefs. I stand by what I chose.”

 

“Like you stood by the Assassins, once?” Ezio sighed, pushing away from the door. “The end of the world is approaching. The literal end. What will your beliefs matter, when the world burns around you?”

 

He turned to leave, obviously done with their discussion, but Lucy called out his name. There was something that had been bothering her ever since she laid eyes on him. “We have your codex. You're what now, 30? 35, at the most?”

 

“33.”

 

“I read your codex. Parts of it, at least. One of the last pages I read detailed events that took place when you were already in your fifties.” Lucy shook her head, openly letting him see her confusion. “Those pages shouldn't exist.”

 

“They are powerful, these Pieces of Eden,” Ezio said.

 

It was all he said, before he stepped out and locked the door.

 

Lucy immediately folded herself into a cross-legged position, setting the water bottle aside and eagerly reaching for her left heel. It could be unscrewed from the rest of the boot, like a bottle cap. The blade hidden inside the hollow part of the heel was little more than a razor blade, one side covered with a rounded wooden grip, but it was perfectly serviceable. She sawed through the plastic binders around her wrists.

 

She stood back up, the small blade still in hand, and bent to look out the window closest to her. Clouds, gray and feathery, as far as the eye could see. Was the sun coming up, or was it going down? Lucy had lost all sense of time. She rubbed her aching wrists, flexed her fingers; she wandered from one end of her temporary 'cell' to the other, noting that behind the last seat toward the rear stood one of those portable toilets.

 

She peed, unconcerned if there was video surveillance or not. If there was, she hoped whoever was on the other end got a good view.

 

She picked up the water bottle and the cut plastic binders and chose a pair of seats in the approximate middle, stretching out with a sigh of relief. It was easier to think, now that Desmond wasn't sitting across from her, or next to her; he was charismatic, she had to give him that. Lucy wasn't one to be befuddled by someone's good lucks or fooled by charming behavior, but it was hard _not_ to notice these things, sometimes.

 

It wasn't Desmond's looks that had drawn her in. And his behavior wasn't so much charming as slightly psychotic, which wasn't really surprising, according to what he'd told her so far. She wasn't sure if he was even aware of the abandonment issues he'd displayed, when Altaїr up and left.

 

God, but she _would_ have given everything to be present when Desmond and William met again. That William wasn't even on the plane at the moment, unless he was sitting with whoever was flying it, spoke volumes.

 

Lucy played with the small blade, testing its sharpness against her thumb, and pushed her hatred of William Miles to the back of her mind. There were more important things to be thinking about.

 

She wondered if it was a periodical thing: solar flares had ended the reign of Those Who Came Before. Now they were going to end the reign of those who'd come after: humans. And if it wasn't solar flares, then the end came in the form of Juno.

 

Lucy hadn't fully understood Desmond's cryptic words about Juno, Minerva and Jupiter, or how these entities even still managed to exist, aeons after their culture had burned down around them. Projections of the Apple of Eden, maybe – or had they somehow preserved themselves in it?

 

Lucy knew enough about that ancient civilization to recognize their superiority in terms of technological advancement. The key to saving the planet lay somewhere in there, she was certain. Desmond must have figured it out, or at least believed he had.

 

And it was something he needed her for.

 

Strip away the non-essentials, what was left? The world was going to end. There were two certain ways to safe it: let it burn, with a handful of survivors coming out to start all over again. Save it, but release Juno, potentially another disaster, and she really needed him to explain that one in more detail.

 

There was a third way. One that somehow involved Lucy.

 

She resolved herself to waiting, humming quietly to herself.

 

\- - -

 

She must have fallen asleep; the next time Lucy opened her eyes the sky outside the windows was dark, and the door to the rear was open. So was the other one, a glance over the top of the seat in front of her affirmed. Lucy sat up, and cursed: she'd still had her small blade in her hand when she drifted off, and now, rising, she'd cut her palm open, unconsciously gripping it.

 

Desmond appeared at the rear door, looking at her quizzically. She held up her bleeding hand. “Need a band-aid?”

 

“I'll live.” She licked the blood off and inspected the wound. It was only a shallow cut, running across her palm.

 

“Well, come on, then.” Desmond slung a duffel bag over his shoulder, locked the door, and strode past her. Apparently it didn't bother him at all that she was now behind him, armed. It was arrogant to assume that he'd be able to win against her – but Lucy had seen what Desmond was capable of. It was well-founded arrogance. “We'll be landing in two hours.” He stopped at the other door. “I should probably warn you that Ezio isn't going to take it kindly if you walk back in there with that blade.”

 

Lucy was already fitting said blade back into the hollow compartment in her heel. “He said as much.” Standing up, she stretched, then followed him. “Charming fellow, that.”

 

“Really good in bed, too. The things he can do with his hands.”

 

“That. . . is quite possibly way too much information,” Lucy said.

 

She took the seat she'd spent most of the flight in, looking around. Ezio was nowhere in sight, and Desmond was unpacking clothes or something from the duffel bag at another table.

 

Psychotic or not, she preferred this Desmond to the one who'd been dragged into Abstergo against his will – an act, she knew now, but still. That Desmond had been. . . dull. Not dumb, but dull; she'd expected him to be more and was disappointed when he wasn't.

 

She flipped the remains of the plastic cuffs between her fingers. “Explain to me why there is a codex in Ezio's handwriting with events from when he was in his fifties, when there's an Ezio here that according to his own words is 33.”

 

“I'm not sure I can.” Desmond frowned at a shirt, setting it aside. “Minerva explained it to me once, but it never made sense to me.” He settled against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest. “There isn't just one future. There are parallel paths. And depending on what we do, those paths split, converge, merge, et cetera. With me so far?”

 

Lucy nodded. That much was common knowledge.

 

“When Altaїr had the Apple pull me back to his time, in _my_ time, he was already dead. So was Ezio. That's why there's a codex written by Ezio, and one written by Altaїr, in _my_ time, in the now.” Desmond drew a face. “But I lived in _their_ times, so I brought a bit of my past with me. Well, actually, I brought all of it with me. Minerva said that Altaїr's actions didn't so much change the course of history, but turn two parallel paths into one.”

 

“So he. . . what, he merged two realities?”

 

“Basically. In this time, there is an Ezio who died, a long time ago. But there is also the Ezio I met.”

 

It was her turn to draw a face. “That doesn't really make any sense.”

 

“Believe me, I've tried to figure it out.” Desmond laughed under his breath and returned to his unpacking and sorting. “I decided to leave well enough alone, after a while. I like my brain where it is, not dribbling out my ears. Maybe it was some kind of security measure, so the course of history _wouldn't_ be altered too much.”

 

“I suppose I'll settle for that, too, then.” It didn't really matter, in the long run. Ezio was here. And they had two hours before landing. Seating herself more comfortably, she asked, “I'm assuming Altaїr did return? From Acre, I mean.”

 

“Eventually, yes.” Desmond selected a shirt, black like the one he wore, and began to re-pack the duffel bag. “But not from Acre. From Cyprus. And he wasn't alone.”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, March 13 th, 1195**

\- - -

 

On March 13th, 1195, Desmond celebrated his sixth birthday, and killed a man for the first time in his life.

 

Actually, there was no celebration at all. Desmond didn't want one. He didn't even mention it to Malik, or anyone else – hadn't, in the previous two years, either. His childhood at the Farm, with its enforced birthday parties, made him averse to the idea of drawing attention to the day. So he'd been born – so what? That was no reason to glorify it.

 

He didn't even know if it was truly his sixth birthday. From comparing his size to children of that actual age, Desmond guessed it was; for all he knew he could be five, or even seven years old.

 

In his time he would be 26. In his time, he would be dead already.

 

There were other things on his mind, anyway.

 

The previous two winters had been harsh, and Masyaf barely recovered over the long, hot summers. The fortress and the village clustered around the stone plateau Masyaf sat on lived in a state of co-existence; if one suffered, so did the other. A strange crop disease destroyed much of the harvest in 1194, forcing the villagers to the brink of famine and Masyaf into importing grains, beans and other goods on a larger scale.

 

The winter between '94 and '95 was the coldest and deadliest Desmond ever lived through. 'Snow' wasn't exactly the first thing that came to mind when thinking of Syria and deserts, but snow there was, in overabundance. Soon, almost all of the trees that dotted the landscape were gone, made into firewood, and when the roads iced over and disappeared under snowbanks, and not even the ox-driven carts made it past the edges of the municipality anymore, Malik gave the order to evacuate the village and close Masyaf's gates.

 

For two long months, they huddled down. For two long months, villagers and Assassins lived under the same snow-laden roofs and ate the same stale rations. Toward the end of January, they started to burn furniture, because there was no more firewood; between January and February, one of the village women accused an Assassin of attempting to rape her. The resulting riot saw six dead villagers, but no casualties on the Assassins' side.

 

The weather broke, fortunately, before anything worse happened. Masyaf's gates were reopened and the villagers returned to their huts, which still lay under a blindingly white cover of snow. Within a week, the snow melted, and villagers and Assassins both, relations strained, set out to repair the damages.

 

Desmond hit another growth spurt. He was now tall enough to wrap his arms around Malik's waist; when he did, he noted how thin Malik had become. They all had. He had, too – he looked almost feral, Malik said, with his dark hair and amber eyes, his narrow face and thin, agile body.

 

Desmond wasn't quite displeased by that.

 

No one no longer complained when he climbed somewhere. He no longer fell down or got stuck. He was no longer noticed, when he didn't wish to – after balance, falling and other basic exercises, Malik had tutored him in becoming invisible, one with the crowd, the furniture, whatever yielded enough cover.

 

Desmond had put his abilities to the test over the winter, shamelessly invading private quarters or eavesdropping when the elders of the village had their chit-chats. He respected Malik's privacy, and Rauf's, who had become something like the closest friend Desmond had, over the last two years; everyone else was fair game.

 

Even other Assassins.

 

 _Especially_ other Assassins, lately. Desmond wasn't blind, and the shifts and changes in mood no longer escaped him. In fact, to Desmond it seemed as if a perpetual aura of tension hung over Masyaf's roofs these days, making him hyper-alert to everything.

 

Swami had become more and more vocal in his criticism toward Malik, and downright insulting when Malik wasn't there to hear it. There were others, a good dozen, who agreed with him. Yet others teetered with indecision, attempting a balancing act between tradition and new values.

 

So far, it hadn't gone beyond criticism and insults.

 

Desmond informed Malik of what he overheard. They had gotten closer, out of sheer necessity, but Malik had a habit of keeping people at arm's length ever since Altaїr left, and that included Desmond. There were days when they didn't share more words than a 'good morning'.

 

Desmond couldn't blame him. Running Masyaf and by extension the village affairs, when in a position that wasn't truly respected by many, took gargantuan effort. It wasn't a burden Desmond would have wanted on _his_ shoulders.

 

“What do you want me to do about it?” Malik asked, that morning at breakfast, on March 13th. By now, it was the only meal they shared. Desmond tended to just drop into the kitchens when he needed something to eat, or joined Rauf and the younger recruits. “I could silence Swami, certainly. I could do it myself, even, if he openly challenged me.”

 

“He won't,” Desmond muttered. “He's too much of a coward.”

 

“And that's my problem. He has caused enough of a stir that if he were to disappear now, all fingers would point at me, whether or not I actually killed him.” Malik took another bite of flat bread. “I can't just forbid him to speak, either.”

 

“So what _can_ you do about Swami?”

 

“Nothing.” Malik sighed. “Absolutely nothing. He, like everyone else in Masyaf, has a right to his opinion. Unless he openly attacks me or breaks the tenets of the Creed, and he's unfortunately not dumb enough to commit that error, there is nothing I can do.”

 

Desmond almost regretted bringing the topic up. Malik had been in a relatively good mood; now the man looked pensive and introverted again. Desmond had gotten used to that, but he didn't like being the cause of it.

 

They finished their breakfast in silence, and Desmond carried the dirty dishes into the kitchens, which had been relocated to an adjoining building when the villagers moved in during the winter, to provide more space in the fortress itself. They'd only just started repairing the damages the cold had wrought, and moving the kitchens back into the fortress proper was at the bottom of the list; there were more pressing matters to attend to.

 

Desmond stopped in the courtyard for a minute to observe the stonemasons from the village, inspecting a large crack down the inner palisade wall. Then he hurried on. He had a bit of a headache, and the bright morning sun made it worse. He was going to deliver the dishes, and then he was going to find a quiet spot somewhere, to hole up in.

 

They'd finally reached the consensus that if Desmond wasn't going to needlessly endanger his health, Malik wasn't going to breathe down his neck. It was an arrangement that suited them both just fine. Usually, when he wasn't training – he was _still_ too small for weapon training, although Malik had begun muttering about throwing knives under his breath lately – Desmond could spend the day however he pleased.

 

Dishes delivered and already planning where to spend the next few hours, Desmond walked back out into the courtyard. As soon as the sun hit him, he stopped as if he'd run into a wall.

 

Masyaf was no longer solid. It was black and white and wavering, constructed of shining lines; the people in the courtyard were blue and gray specters, unreal. Desmond's stomach heaved, threatening to expel what he'd eaten, the headache suddenly intensifying. He staggered a bit, but then he planted his feet, took a deep breath, and shut his eyes.

 

He remembered seeing something like this before. He remembered feeling like this before, that dull pounding behind his eyes familiar. Back then he'd begged a guard to help him back to his room, unable to take even one step on his own.

 

Not this time. This time, he was going to ride it out. The headache and the accompanying distorted sight had gone away the last time, too, without discernible aftereffects. And as if to prove him right, already his stomach was settling.

 

Desmond opened his eyes, gradually. The sight hadn't changed, Masyaf was still made of these distorted, wavering lines. The stonemasons, outlined in blue and grey, were erecting a ladder against the wall across the courtyard, and nobody paid Desmond any attention while he watched. The longer he looked, the easier it became. There was an order to it he hadn't noticed last -

 

There was a new color.

 

Desmond squinted. It was a brutal glare of red, centered around a person crossing the courtyard. It was a man, dressed in Assassin garb. Behind him walked another man, also outlined in red, but a lighter, pinkish one; this one, Desmond saw, was dressed in plain clothes, mere rags. They were headed for the doors into Masyaf's grand hall.

 

Desmond blinked. The colors were gone, Masyaf was solid. He blinked again, and the colors returned. It was like some kind of filter was being switched on and off.

 

Somewhere above him, glass shattered.

 

Activity in the courtyard came to a standstill as everyone, Desmond included, looked up. A body sailed through a broken window, surrounded by a cloud of glass shards. It trailed red – the filter was back on – but when it landed with a loud, dull thud on the muddy courtyard ground, the red faded to gray. Instead, there was another kind of red now, liquid and very real and spreading around the broken body at an alarming rate.

 

It was an Assassin, and a now very dead one, at that.

 

For a heartbeat, everyone stood still and silent. Desmond's ears were ringing, his throat was tightening. That Assassin hadn't jumped. The man had been pushed.

 

 _Pushed_.

 

The door to the westernmost guard tower flew open. A pair of Assassins tumbled out, locked in combat, hidden blades unsheathed.

 

The stonemasons and other villagers in the courtyard fled like a flock of scared birds, shouting and running for Masyaf's tall gates. Desmond was nearly bowled over by a pair of washer women who came running out of the kitchen behind him, their shrill screams startling him.

 

But it also galvanized him into moving. Instinctively, he headed for the corpse – god, so much blood, and the white of shattered bone piercing through skin and cloth – and grabbed at the hilt of the man's dagger, yanking the blade free from its sheath.

 

“We are under attack!” The hoarse shout came from the doors to the grand hall. It was an old man, one of the scholars, bow-legged and white-haired, and bleeding from a large gash down the side of his face. “Alert the -”

 

The scholar stumbled, black robe flying – arched, strangely, the shaft of an arrow suddenly sticking out from the center of his body – fell and rolled, ending as an untidy, motionless heap at the bottom of the stairs.

 

Desmond turned his head, to see where the arrow had come from. Blinked. It was happening too fast. The red color was back again. It came from Masyaf's gates, a whole group of it, but there were flashes of blue, as well.

 

Across the courtyard, in front of the guard tower, blue and red fought. Blue won; the blue Assassin drew his hidden blade across the red Assassin's throat, and red began to fade, while blue remained standing. It was one of the young men from Rauf's latest batch of recruits, standing wide-eyed, disbelief written across his features, above the corpse of an erstwhile comrade.

 

A second later he was on his knees, howling with pain, an arrow shaft between his ribs, another in his arm.

 

Desmond ran for the doors. He vaulted over the dead scholar's body and headed up the stairs, the dagger clutched in one hand. An arrow whistled past him and embedded itself in the door just as he ran through, and someone was shouting, “There! There!”

 

He glanced over his shoulder.

 

It was Swami.

 

Surrounded by a group of white-garbed others, Swami stood under the tall gateway into Masyaf's courtyard. His hood was down, and he looked directly at Desmond, a look full of hatred. In his hand, he held a curved, long sword, and now he raised it, pointing.

 

“The traitor's son! Get him!”

 

Desmond raced into the grand hall. Masyaf _was_ under attack – but not from an outside enemy. Disbelief warred with an almost _tired_ sense of acknowledgment; Swami, it seemed, had decided it was time to go beyond criticism and insults.

 

Desmond headed for the stairs to the Mentor's study. He had to find Malik. He had to. . . fuck, what was he supposed to do? In every corner of the grand hall, there were Assassins fighting one another. They were fighting on the stairs. Already the marble floor of the grand hall was slippery with blood, the red stuff smeared everywhere by booted feet.

 

“Desmond!”

 

He halted. He was in the middle of the stairway leading up to the first walkway that ringed the grand hall. The shout had come from below, and Desmond looked over the bannister. It was Rauf, his white robe and tunic streaked with red. He held a longsword in one hand, the hidden blade on his other arm dripping blood.

 

“Get out of here!” Rauf shouted, sounding winded. “Hide! You -”

 

The tip of an arrow shot out between Rauf's lips. Horrified, Desmond watched him reach up, fingering the small, triangular piece of metal almost curiously. Then Rauf's mouth emitted a strange sound, like a wheeze; he dropped to his knees and fell forward onto his face, the arrow's feathered shaft sticking up from the back of his head.

 

Swami stepped into the grand hall, surrounded by his followers, already reached for a fresh arrow, ugly triumph written across his face.

 

Desmond turned and ran. He made it to the walkway, darting around two Assassins who tumbled out of an open door, hidden blades flashing between them. Fear began to sink its claws into him: hide, but where? If they'd already gotten to Malik – if Malik was already dead -

 

He heard Swami somewhere behind him, shouting orders.

 

Turning the corner at the end of the walkway, Desmond came to an abrupt halt. The hallway in front of him was littered with corpses, all dressed in white, all lying in pools of blood. It was impossible to tell friend from enemy, it was -

 

“For fuck's sake, not now!” Masyaf wavered again, solidity vanishing. The corpses in the hallway became indistinct lumps of gray. He tripped over one of them, lost his footing, the sudden change in sight disorienting him. He landed in something slippery that was still warm, felt it soak through his breeches at the knees, squish between his fingers, against his knuckles where he gripped the dagger. “Please!”

 

At the end of the hallway, blue and red were clogging the stairs that led to the Mentor's study. Desmond scrambled back to his feet, panicking. If Malik was still alive, he was somewhere behind that. Malik stuck to routine. After breakfast, he would have gone to the study, to check if any pigeons had come in, to ready himself for the day's duties.

 

But there was no way Desmond could get past that angry mob of blue and red.

 

Someone grabbed him from behind, a brutal grip on the back of his neck. Long fingers dug into the sides of his throat. He was yanked backwards, off his feet – realized he'd stood staring and still for far too long.

 

“Cockroach,” the man behind him snarled. Desmond twisted as much as he could, looked up. Not Swami. But a face he knew, one of the older Assassins, with scarred cheeks, his breath fetid, his eyes wild. Outlined in red, awash in it. The man's other hand came up, hand pulled back in a chilling, familiar motion. “Die like the scum -”

 

Desmond brought his dagger up between them. He aimed for the throat, but what he hit was the underside of the Assassin's chin. It was a desperate, clumsy stab, without much strength behind it, but the tip of Desmond's dagger sank through soft skin and scraped along bone.

 

He was let go, the Assassin rearing back with a pained howl, blood pouring out of his open mouth. His hidden blade opened a burning cut along the side of Desmond's head, right above his ear.

 

Blue flashed behind Desmond, someone's arm extending above his head, armed with a long dagger. This dagger found its mark, stabbed with precision into the Assassin's throat, above his Adam's apple. Red began to fade to gray. Desmond was grabbed again, pulled away; he looked up, recognized the face under the hood as belonging to Wajdi, who tended to stand guard at the door to the Mentor's study.

 

Wajdi dragged him down the hallway. Wajdi was a pillar of blue, bright and clear. Wajdi opened a door and shoved Desmond through it without another word, and a key turned in the lock. Desmond, who'd landed in a sprawl on the floor, heard a scrape of metal against marble.

 

When he looked, a key, glowing gold, lay between the door and him. Wajdi had locked him in and then slid the key under the crack in the door.

 

A blink. Masyaf was solid again.

 

 _I get it, I get it – red for enemies. Blue for friendlies. Gold for whatever._ Desmond took his first breath in what felt like hours and realized he was shaking. _But can I please get the color-coded bullshit when_ I _want it?_

 

The door shuddered under someone's weight thrown against it. Desmond retreated further into the room.

 

“Forget about him, for now,” someone snarled, outside the door. Swami. “Malik first. I need that damn Apple!”

 

The Apple!

 

No wonder the brunt of the fighting was taking place in this tower. Swami thought Malik had the Apple. He didn't know it was in Desmond's room, hidden in a leather satchel between his mattress and the bed frame.

 

If Swami got his hands on the Piece of Eden and somehow managed to activate it, Masyaf would fall.

 

That meant Desmond had to get to it, first.

 

He crept up to the door. The sound of fighting wasn't gone, but it was muffled, more distant. Swami's men must have overcome the resistance put up at the foot of the stairs to the Mentor's study, or the Assassins there had retreated. He picked up the key, heart hammering in his throat while he inserted it into the lock and slowly turned it. The snap of the opening lock was so loud, he was certain someone would hear it.

 

But no one shoved the door open. Desmond swallowed, licking dry lips and tasting metal. The cut above his ear was still bleeding; his cheek was wet. He laid his free hand against the door handle and inched it down, peering around the door once it was open.

 

No one in the hallway except corpses. Wajdi was among them, dull eyes staring upward.

 

Desmond ran back toward the walkway, heading his room. It was eerily quiet. Where _was_ everyone? There was no way Swami's men had killed all but the Assassins left in the tower of the Mentor. Swami didn't have enough men for something like this.

 

Did he?

 

Desmond reached his room. The door was still shut. So was the one at the end of the hallway. The Apple was still in its leather satchel, warm in Desmond's trembling hands when he took it out and cradled it against his chest, the dagger clasped awkwardly against the smooth metal.

 

When he turned around, Swami stood in the doorway. He was an ugly sight, bloodied, a long gash down the front of his robe. His long, curved sword was gone, but his hidden blade was still there, extended, and Swami's fingers were flexing around it.

 

“So he left it with _you_ ,” Swami said, contemplatively. “I should have known.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

 

Desmond didn't move one inch. He felt curiously calm. “Where is Malik?”

 

Swami took a step into the room. “Give me that Apple.”

 

“No.”

 

Swami laughed. He took another step forward. “You can give it to me, or I will just take it. I might just let you live. Or I might kill you. Slowly.” The expression on his face said that he would enjoy every second of that, too. “Now give it to me.”

 

Desmond threw the Apple at Swami with all the strength he had, and followed in its wake. Fear and panic were gone, replaced by an ice-cold, calm fury. He was going to _kill_ this bastard. Swami's hands came up, reaching for the Apple, triumph replaced by a split second of surprise when he realized Desmond was running straight at him.

 

He caught the Apple in both hands.

 

Desmond rammed the dagger forward into the unprotected area under Swami's wide belt, right below the red sash. He yanked it out, turned it, and rammed it in again, this time into the inside of Swami's left thigh, close to the groin.

 

Swami's howl of agony rang in Desmond's ears. He looked up. The Apple was still in Swami's hands. With wide eyes, he was staring at it, and the Apple was _glowing_.

 

Desmond yanked the dagger out again, hot blood spraying against his hands, his arms, his front. He'd hit what he aimed for, then: that was arterial spray, pulsing fast. He took a step back, still filled with that glacial calm, and reached up with one hand, finding a grip on Swami's belt. He pulled himself up, boosting himself with a foot against Swami's knee.

 

He stabbed the tip of the dagger into Swami's wide-open, right eye, as hard as he could.

 

Like a felled tree, Swami toppled over backwards. The Apple fell out of the cradle of his twitching fingers, rolling across the floor, still glowing. Desmond, taking advantage of the new angle and the fact that he was now on top of his target, leaned his weight on the dagger until its narrow hilt sank all the way into Swami's face.

 

Then he climbed off, leaving the dagger where it was. Swami could take it to hell with him, for all Desmond cared. His head was empty, but a thread of rage bubbled in his chest. He picked up the Apple, eying it. It felt warmer than usual, familiar, _good_. He headed out of his room and down the hallway, then onto the walkway.

 

There was a commotion going on in the grand hall, people pouring in through the open doors. Agitated shouts rang out. There were villagers, but also Assassins, their robes muddied, their boots crusted with dirt.

 

 _Oh, right_ , Desmond thought, detached. _Malik sent them to help repair the dam, for the fields._

 

Someone shouted his name. He ignored it, turning right and heading for the corpse-littered hallway. He needed to find Malik.

 

Someone took him by the shoulder and stopped him. Desmond twisted out of the grip and turned on his heel, glaring up. He didn't have _time_ for explanations. He needed to find Malik, for fuck's sake! Could the idiots not _see_ what had happened here?

 

His angry shout died on his lips.

 

Altaїr gripped him by the shoulder again and laid his free hand against the Apple. Immediately, it stopped glowing, returning to its dormant state. Behind him, the walkway was filling with people: Assassins, villagers, all terrified-looking. There was a woman, too, her pale skin standing out amid the crowd of darker faces. She didn't look terrified at all, and there was a sword in her hand.

 

Altaїr said, “Find Malik.” He took the Apple and slipped it into a pocket. “Hurry.”

 

Desmond needed a moment to understand that the cold-voiced command hadn't been aimed at him. Numbly, Altaїr's hand still gripping him by the shoulder, he watched the Assassins in the crowd behind them move, running past them, opening doors, bending over corpses.

 

“He was. . . Mentor's study, Malik, I mean. . .” Desmond trailed off. He couldn't think straight.

 

“Are you injured?” Altaїr asked. He narrowed his eyes, glancing at the side of Desmond's head. “Desmond, are you hurt?”

 

Was he? He didn't feel anything. Mutely, Desmond shook his head.

 

“He's in shock.” The pale-skinned woman appeared at Altaїr's side. She had kind eyes, and her expression spoke of concern. “Leave him be.”

 

An Assassin came running up to them. “We found him, Mentor.”

 

Altaїr never looked away from Desmond. “Alive?”

 

“Wounded, but yes, alive.” The Assassin's tone of voice took on an edge of sharpness. “Found the rest of these dogs, too. But Swami isn't among them.”

 

“He's dead,” Desmond said. “I killed him. In my room.” Altaїr, the Assassin and the pale woman all looked at him, three identical expressions of concern mingling with surprise. He shook off Altaїr's hand, stepping away from him. Space. He needed space. “He wanted the Apple. He. . .”

 

Desmond trailed off. What was he doing? Altaїr was back – Altaїr was _back_ – and Malik was wounded and not dead, and he'd just killed a man, stabbed him through the eye, and Masyaf was riddled with corpses.

 

“You goddamn asshole,” Desmond said, careless who heard him. His eyes were burning. No flashes of color, this time: ordinary tears. Somehow, that was worse. “You _left_ us.”

 

Altaїr said nothing, his jaw clenching. Then he said, “I'm here now.”

 

Desmond laughed, tiredly, and walked away. _God_ , did he need space.

 

\- - -

 

From the balcony at the top of the westernmost tower, he watched the corpses being carried out Masyaf's doors, one after the other. Sixteen, all in all. Somehow, he'd expected there would be more, but most of the Assassins had really been down in the village, helping repair the damages the cold winter had caused to the dam. All things considered, they had been lucky. Had Swami's plan succeeded, there could have been a lot more bodies, carried on stretchers, hidden under white sheets.

 

Desmond took no solace from that knowledge.

 

Rauf was beneath the white sheets. So was Wajdi, and though Desmond knew little more about him than his name and that his primary duty had been to stand guard at the Mentor's study, he wished he'd had the time to at least properly thank him. Wajdi had saved his life, when he shoved Desmond into the room and locked the door.

 

He shivered, hugging his knees to his chest. He was cold. Perhaps it was because he'd been up here for hours, still in his bloodied tunic and breeches, though the blood had long since dried. Perhaps it was the sun, milky behind thin clouds, not yet as warm as it was during the summer.

 

It certainly wasn't because he'd killed a man, for the first time in his life. Or was it? When he thought of Swami, he did so coldly, detached; the bastard got what he deserved, and by Desmond's own hand.

 

Down in courtyard, they were now gathering up the bodies of the scholar, the Assassin who'd fallen through the window to his death, the two at the foot of the tower. Desmond scooted a little, until he sat with his back against the tower wall. He didn't really want to be seen, by anyone.

 

Least of all, _him_ : Altaїr stood in the doorway to the grand hall, the pale woman next to him. They were talking with a man Desmond recognized as one of Masyaf's physicians.

 

About Malik, perhaps?

 

He would go to see him, later. Malik was in the best hands, and Desmond knew he'd only get underfoot if he made his way into the side wing of the fortress now, where the sickbeds stood in orderly lines in a long room, beneath the watchful eyes of the physicians.

 

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingers caught on the cut above his ear. It had stopped bleeding, thankfully. His ear and jaw were crusted with flaking blood; there was dried blood on his hands, under his fingernails, on his clothes; he probably looked like something dragged straight out of a horror movie.

 

He shivered again.

 

Screw it. It was getting too cold up here, or maybe he wasn't as unaffected by landing his first kill as he'd thought. He'd go see Malik now. Desmond really wanted to know how he was doing. And when he was done with seeing how Malik was doing, he'd go have a nervous breakdown somewhere quiet and warm.

 

By the time he made it back into the courtyard, Altaїr and the woman were gone. Perhaps, for once, the forces that moved the universe were actually listening to him. Desmond's steps slowed has he walked past two Assassins who were wrapping the scholar's corpse into white linen sheets. That poor, old man. Silently, Desmond wished him a good journey.

 

One of the Assassins looked up when he approached, and sucked in a quiet breath. “Are you all right?”

 

He probably looked _worse_ than something dragged out of a horror movie. “I'm fine.” Desmond sped up. “It's not my blood.” Not all of it, at any rate. He thought of something and hesitated. He'd rather not run into Altaїr, at the moment. “Where is my father?”

 

The Assassin nodded at the doors. “Inside, with his new wife.”

 

What?

 

“Shut up, Shihab!” the other Assassin hissed.

 

They exchanged a quick look. The one who had dropped that bombshell on Desmond gave him an apologetic, nervous smile; they hefted the scholar's wrapped corpse between them and quickly walked toward the gates.

 

Desmond's hands clenched into fists. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to go see how Malik was doing, after all.

 

\- - -

**North Atlantic Ocean, September 13 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

“Wow.” Lucy laughed, she couldn't help it. She imagined how she would have reacted to having _that_ dropped on her, especially after the events of that day. “That. . . wow. Just wow.”

 

“Yeah.” Desmond was laughing a little, himself. “That was pretty much my reaction, too.”

 

“I would have _killed_ Altaїr.”

 

“I was giving it some serious thought, in that moment,” Desmond admitted. He'd finished packing, the duffel bag resting on the floor by his feet. “I mean, rationally I knew that there hadn't really been time to tell me. Masyaf was in a state of chaos, over the attack, over his return. . .but yeah.”

 

Ezio joined them. He'd wandered back and forth over the last thirty minutes, sometimes listening in for a few before he pulled a flat, black, ultra-modern cellphone from a pocket of his tailored slacks and wandered back out of earshot.

 

“Buckle up,” he said. “We're landing in a bit.”

 

Lucy ignored the sting of pain from her palm, buckling herself in and watching Ezio and Desmond do the same, two rows of seats over. Ezio was tapping his cellphone against his chin. She wondered a bit, how it was that he so easily accepted everything around him, even used it. For a man hailing from the 15th century, the wonders of modern technology had to appear as things out of a fairytale, or the devil's work. Two years was an awfully short time to accustom oneself to an entirely different way of living.

 

Desmond had done it. Only in reverse, going back instead of forward.

 

“Lucy,” Desmond said, catching her attention. “I think by now you've realized that I don't really give a crap if you're a Templar or not.”

 

He'd never said it out loud, no, but she'd guessed as much. Aware of the suddenly much more somber air between them, Lucy settled for a simple nod. Ezio's gaze had darkened; _he_ gave a crap, apparently.

 

“Right. So.” Desmond cocked his head at her. “This can go two ways. We're landing at Angels Field Airport, in Tallahassee, in about 15 minutes. It's a private airport. You can get off this plane and into a car with me and Ezio. Or, you can get off this plane and walk away. And four months from now, on December 21st, you'll know if I managed to stop the world from burning. Or not.”

 

She looked from one to the other. In the spirit of the Assassins, Desmond was giving her a choice.

 

Could it really be that simple?

 

“I could go straight to the next Abstergo center,” she pointed out. “There are four or five in Florida, that I know of.”

 

“You could. You could also tell them everything I told you, and that I have the Apple of Eden they want so badly, for their 'New World Order'.” Desmond smiled gently, making the actual air quotes. “That's not going to change the fact that four months down the road, Florida's going to be a scorch mark on the maps, along with pretty much every other place in the world.”

 

“They're going to hunt you down.”

 

Ezio's smile matched Desmond's in gentleness. “They can try.”

 

Desmond shut his eyes and leaned back in his seat, completely at ease. “You have 15 minutes to decide.”

 

Lucy didn't need 15 minutes. She didn't even need one. “I'm coming with you,” she said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short note on the whole Malik-as-the-Mentor-replacement-deal and how it kinda backfired: do I think Malik is incapable? Hell, no. I love Malik; I think he'd make an awesome Mentor, under different circumstances. No offense is meant to any Malik-fans, I count myself among you. :P
> 
> And, for the record, Ezio will become more vocal in later parts of the story, too.


	6. SIX

_**Chapter SIX** _

 

\- - -

**Tallahassee, United States of America, September 14 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

The Tallahassee safe house was, metaphorically speaking, located within spitting distance of the Abstergo Employee Training Center. You could see the distinct Abstergo logo from the windows facing east. Lucy marveled a little at the audacity and a lot at the wisdom of setting up shop in that close proximity, but then admitted that hiding in plain sight was often the last thing an enemy expected. The Templars had been doing it for decades, after all; first, with their Templar-run hospitals in the Old World, and later on a much grander scale with Abstergo Industries, everywhere.

 

Located amid a cluster of smallish office buildings, the Assassin safe house wasn't a real house. They had three floors to themselves, atop an exceedingly ugly, 8-store, square glass-and-steel construction, the type of building found in cities everywhere. The lower levels contained storage areas. An investment firm had once rented the first floor, Desmond explained, but they'd gone bankrupt in the wake of America's recession in 2007. When the Assassins acquired the building, they'd simply left the first floor as it was, including the fading advertisements plastered all over the glass front.

 

Lucy moved into the safe house without a blindfold on, her hands free.

 

“I'm watching you,” Rebecca said, venomously. She and Shaun had been setting up their computer equipment on the eighth floor when Lucy wandered in. “One wrong move and I'll kill you.”

 

Lucy, admiring the breathtaking view of Tallahassee's downtown from one of the windows, looked at her long and silently. She said, “I'm not your enemy.”

 

“You're a Templar!” Rebecca spat. She was sitting astride the Assassins' version of the Animus. To Lucy, it looked a little like a tacky easy chair, but she decided that not mentioning that was probably better. “You betrayed the Assassins! You deserted us, and then you turned around and stabbed us in the back.”

 

That much was true, though Lucy thought she hadn't really stabbed anyone. She pointed at the Animus. “I fed you enough information to build that thing.” Rebecca's glare darkened. “Besides, what with the end of the world being imminent and all, don't you think we have better things to do than squabble over who's on whose side?”

 

“Good lord, he got to you, too,” Shaun commented. He was sitting in front of a large computer bank, his back to both of them.

 

“You don't believe the end is coming?” Lucy asked, holding Rebecca's glare.

 

“I believe it well enough,” Shaun said. He swiveled around on his chair. “I'm just not sure I agree with Desmond's idea that said end of the world automatically makes us all even and puts us on the same side.”

 

Lucy shrugged. At this point, she wasn't sure if she was truly a Templar anymore, but she knew for certain she was no longer an Assassin. In the great battle between chaos and order, she knew which side she'd pick.

 

Desmond's disturbing and very personal demonstration of the power contained in the Apple of Eden, on the plane, _had_ made her doubt the wisdom of letting Abstergo get their hands on it. She wasn't sure if letting _anyone_ get their hands on it was such a good idea, in fact. She'd felt the Apple's corrupting power, experienced its call to the baser parts of her psyche.

 

“Just stay away from me,” Rebecca said, sullenly. She turned her back, putting her headphones on.

 

Shaun swiveled his chair around again, turning back to the computer screens.

 

“Let me guess,” Lucy said, dryly, “this is the part where I slink off like a beaten dog, tail between my legs?”

 

“Lucy,” Shaun said, sighing, “please don't push it.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “If Desmond hadn't intervened, you'd have been executed in the parking lot in Italy. He's holding a protective hand over you. Quite frankly, I'm not entirely sure if he knows what he's doing, keeping you alive. You did betray the order.”

 

“If you don't trust him, then why are you here?”

 

“It has little to do with trust. We're here because one bright, sunny day, Desmond waltzed through our door and dropped a shitload of confusing and scary information on our heads. He told us that he could use our help. He _also_ said that if we weren't in a helping mood, hey, no biggie.”

 

Casually, Lucy crossed to Shaun's side of the room, leaning against the table next to him. “That must have stung.”

 

“My ego can take a beating,” Shaun declared magnanimously. He deflated a little, swiveling back and forth on his chair. “Like I said before, Desmond was very convincing. I know what I saw in the Animus, and we recorded those sessions. I don't want to the world to end in fire and brimstone.”

 

Lucy aimed for a neutral tone of voice, “And the rest of the order?”

 

“William organized that, once we got him on board.” Obviously debating with himself how much he could tell her, Shaun added, “They don't. . . _exactly_ see eye to eye.”

 

William Miles had probably only agreed to aid Desmond in order to keep an eye on him. It would be something the senior Miles would do. Eying Shaun, knowing there was something he wasn't saying, Lucy asked, “What aren't you telling me?”

 

Shaun looked at her over the rims of his glasses, expression serious. “There are some who are in favor of letting the world burn.”

 

“That's insane.”

 

“Is it?” he challenged, chin coming up. “According to Desmond, there _will_ be survivors. Enough to start all over. Think about it – a fresh start. An even playing field.”

 

A planet ravaged by solar flares, with an untold but staggeringly high number of casualties, lives that had never, in any way, come into contact with Templars or Assassins. For a moment, Lucy was gripped anew by anger. Just as quickly, the flare of resentment faded. It was wasted energy, to get worked up over this.

 

“Well,” she said, “let's hope that those people don't plan on manipulating whatever plan Desmond has, then.”

 

“Yeah,” Shaun said, “let's.” He turned back to his computer. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'm rather busy.”

 

Lucy took her sweet time making her way downstairs, mulling things over. It seemed that Desmond had drawn her right into the hard core of the people who supported him: Shaun and Rebecca, and by extension Ezio, though Ezio was probably in it for more personal reasons as well. She wasn't going to count William among them.

 

She couldn't help shaking her head over the irony of it all; Project Siren would have seen Lucy set up in a very similar situation. It had been their contingency plan: had Desmond proven too unstable in the Animus, or too effected by the Bleed that inevitably happened, Lucy would have staged their 'escape' from Italy. She would have met up with Shaun and Rebecca, put Desmond in a stabler environment where he was surrounded by allies instead of enemies, and monitored his further Animus sessions from there.

 

Now she was here, among them, in quite unforeseen circumstances.

 

Lucy arrived on the seventh floor. It had been set up as s sort of communal living area, with a large, open kitchen, a sitting room, showers and all the other amenities needed. There was even a corner dedicated to a large plasma screen TV, complete with stereo system and various media players. Desmond and Ezio had been busy unpacking provisions, but now they were nowhere in sight.

 

She wanted to take a shower, but the clothes she wore were the only ones she possessed at the moment. She didn't even have her passport, authenticating her as an American citizen. Those things had been left behind in Italy, unless someone had thought to ransack her room in the employee's wing. Considering Desmond's thoroughness, that was altogether likely; she made a mental note to ask him about that, later.

 

Desmond's duffel bag sat on one of the tall chairs at the kitchen island. Lucy headed toward it, then hesitated. She was going to spend a few months in their company, and she rather liked her new freedom. It was probably better to ask if she could borrow a shirt.

 

She imagined how Rebecca would react, if Lucy walked up to her and asked if she could borrow a spare pair of panties, maybe a bra. They were around the same size, above the waist and around the hips.

 

The poor woman was probably going to explode.

 

Grinning at the mental image, Lucy looked around the open living area once more. There was no indication where Desmond and Ezio had gone. Downstairs, where the sleeping quarters were?

 

She walked past the door to the showers, heading for the stairs, and heard a muffled thump. Lucy pressed her ear against the door. Water was rushing. She heard another dull sound, and something that could have been a moan.

 

Oh.

 

There hadn't been time or privacy for that, on the plane. Right? She thought back to the hours she'd spent in that secured compartment and Ezio's comment about wanting some 'time alone', and wondered. Desmond had looked positively dead, already half-asleep when Ezio ushered her into the rear of the plane.

 

Lucy stepped away from the door. Hesitated. She reached for the door handle, arbitrarily thinking of Vidic.

 

She was a private person herself; she'd argued with Vidic about the sense behind 24/7 video surveillance in the quarters of Abstergo's test subjects, the video cameras painfully obvious even in the bathrooms. Already paranoid people weren't made _less_ paranoid by knowing everything they did was being watched. Vidic hadn't seen her point.

 

And right now, Vidic would be laughing at her, and calling her a hypocrite in that smug, know-it-all tone of voice.

 

Her face flamed; she was burning with a curiosity she couldn't explain, with shame because she wanted to see what they were doing. It wasn't sexual – she was neither attracted to Desmond nor to Ezio. If she was honest with herself, Ezio made her downright uneasy. There was something about him Desmond didn't have, an edge of darkness lurking under his careless smiles.

 

Lucy walked away from the door. No. It was between them. It wasn't hers to watch.

 

She looked for something to do, to distract herself. There was a stack of newspapers on a low coffee table, in front of the TV screen, but she wasn't in the mood for reading. There was a shelf full of DVDs and Blue-Ray disks, but she wasn't in the mood for watching some mindless drivel, either.

 

She opened one of the three man-sized fridges, peering at the contents. There was enough in there to feed an army.

 

When the door to the showers opened, letting out a billowing cloud of steam, Lucy was in the middle of draining noodles over the sink. She felt silly; she was an ex-Assassin, fully trained; by her own estimate and at this point in time admittedly rather convoluted judgment she was also an ex-Templar; here she was, the good housewife, cooking.

 

She listened to the patter of bare feet over carpet and wooden floor panels, headed toward her. “I hope you guys like your spaghetti al dente,” she said. “And I want to borrow a shirt. Or some money. Or a washing machine, if there is one.”

 

“We can go shopping later,” Desmond said, sounding preoccupied, “and there is a washing machine.”

 

Lucy turned around with her sieve-full of noodles, half-expecting to feel her face flame again. Thankfully, they were both wearing pants – black jeans for Desmond, slacks again for Ezio – and weren't looking at her at all; Desmond was rifling through his duffel bag, Ezio was rubbing a towel through his hair, peering at the pots and pans on the state-of-the-art stove. They were both wearing their hidden blades, all four of them.

 

Ezio _was_ taller, Lucy noted, by perhaps a hand's breadth. He was broader, too, and paler than Desmond. But they had the same kind of impressive fighter's physique, skin tight over muscle, dark hair dusting their chests and leading in identical trails into the waistbands of their pants.

 

All right, so maybe she was a little bit attracted. Almost anyone with a pulse would be.

 

“I smell food,” Shaun announced, strolling in from the stairs. “Ah, spaghetti. Food for the gods.”

 

“Where's Rebecca?” Lucy asked. She put the sieve on the kitchen island and took a seat.

 

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Upstairs, working on Baby. Er, the Animus.” He opened cabinets, taking out plates, and drawers, scrounging for forks and spoons. “Which is where I'll be, again, in a minute.” He helped himself to a generous portion, ladling on sauce. “Busy, busy, and all that. 'ta!”

 

“Busy with what?” Lucy asked as soon as he was gone.

 

Desmond was pulling on a black t-shirt. “Locating a few things,” he said. He took a seat across from her, and Ezio joined him, towel slung over his shoulders. “You could help, if you want.”

 

“I could, but I get the feeling Rebecca is going to stab me with a screwdriver, if I so much as touch a computer.”

 

“That's between you and her,” Ezio pointed out.

 

She would deal with Rebecca's openly displayed aggressiveness later. Now, there was something different on her mind. Lucy folded her arms on the kitchen island.

 

“All right, guys. I've agreed to helping you. In fact, I'm thankful that you let me live. And I might even agree that letting the Templars have the Apple of Eden is a bad idea.” Lucy looked from one to the other. “But if you want me to contribute, I need to know what the plan is. If you want me to help, and I _want_ to help, I need to know what we're doing.”

 

Desmond forked noodles onto a plate. “We're going to trap a goddess. And then we'll destroy her.”

 

Lucy made a small sound of surprise.

 

“Letting the world burn is out,” Ezio said. “We could save the planet, but that means releasing Juno. Also not such a good idea, considering her hatred toward humans in general. She might just be worse than the solar flares.” He pursed his lips. “So we're going with the only option we have left, really.”

 

She focused on the one thing he'd said that didn't sound like it came straight out of a bad sci-fi novel. “Save the planet, how?”

 

“The Ancients built a number of vaults, back when it happened the first time, to find a solution to the threat,” Desmond picked up. “They tried a couple of things to prevent it, but none really worked. By the time they found one that did work, it was too late. The war between humans and Those Who Came Before had been going on for too long, they'd used up too many resources, whatever.”

 

He shoveled a forkful of noodles in his mouth, chewed, and added, “The catastrophe happened before they could implement that last, working solution.”

 

Lucy asked, “Which is?”

 

“A global shield. Shaun could probably give you the correct, scientific explanation for how exactly it works, but I'm fine with the idea of calling it a global shield. That's what it is, really. It'll absorb the solar flares when they happen, keep earth from being cooked at a few trillion degrees, end of problem.”

 

“And you know where that. . . global shield device is, and how to activate it?”

 

“I do.” Desmond licked his lips, ate another forkful of noodles, and eyed her. “What I don't know, exactly, is how activating it is going to release Juno. I don't even know how she managed to preserve herself in the Apple, or if she even is _in_ the Apple. That's two things we're working on. The third would be how to prevent her from popping out, or if she does, how to get rid of her, pronto.”

 

Lucy sorted what she'd just heard. The way he put it, it sounded doable – too easy. And after a minute, she knew why that bugged her. It was right there, blaring and obvious. “Someone still has to activate that shield. I'm assuming that someone has to be you.” At Desmond's nod, she shrugged helplessly. “But. . .”

 

Ezio reached a hand around Desmond and pulled him closer, a possessive, but also protective gesture. Desmond leaned into it. “I have four months to figure out how to save my life.”

 

\- - -

 

Lucy didn't go shopping. Ezio apparently put his foot down on that; he bluntly asked her clothing sizes and if she preferred her underwear with or without lacy frills, and then left in something of a huff. Sitting on one of the beanbag chairs arranged around the coffee table, wrapped in an oversized bathing robe and finally feeling clean after a long, hot shower, Lucy was going through the stack of newspapers while Desmond was on the phone with someone.

 

She didn't even have to pretend not to eavesdrop on his side of the conversation; the language he spoke wasn't one she knew, but she guessed it was Arabic. It wasn't a very nice conversation, either. By the time Desmond was done, he looked ready to throw the cellphone across the room.

 

“Bad news?”

 

He took a seat on the couch, folding his legs under himself. “Bureaucratic bullshit,” he muttered. “We're having trouble getting into that one place in Morocco.” At her raised brows, he explained, “We're collecting as many of the Pieces of Eden as possible. They're spread out all over the world. Some are in the fucking oceans, can you believe that?”

 

She remembered he had Altaїr's map.

 

“Dad's dealing with it,” Desmond continued, “but some of these places have become national landmarks, or stuff was moved, or just plain doesn't exist anymore. And most of the local authorities aren't really keen on people digging up their countryside without permission.”

 

The Templars would give an arm and a leg, to have that map. They'd only guessed that there _was_ a map, but over the centuries, individuals had turned up who clearly were in possession of one of the Pieces of Eden, and these relics didn't just fall from the sky. And when they'd learned about Ezio Auditore through the DNA memory of Subject 16, and through that of Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad, Vidic had decided they needed to start looking for a descendant of both Ezio and Altaїr.

 

Lucy glanced at the newspaper headlines. Abstergo would be a little too busy now, with the public scandal about unwilling test subjects, to monitor Assassin movement across the globe. The Assassins could go around picking up the remaining Pieces of Eden, while the Templars were busy keeping investigators from tearing their flagship enterprise to shreds.

 

Still. “That's not going to keep them busy forever,” Lucy said, nodding at the newspapers. “Someone is going to realize it's just a ruse, basically, to keep them from looking too closely into what is really going on.”

 

“I have a few other tricks up my sleeve,” Desmond said, confidently. “And if they get too annoying, it'll be open war.”

 

Lucy frowned. “Now you sound like William. A war with the Templars? Isn't that what you wanted to get away from, when you ran away from the Farm?”

 

Desmond looked at her, eyes flashing. “An _open_ war. Not that shadow war my father has been embroiled in for all of his life. That's not what I would do. I'd kill every Templar I come across, if that's what it takes to free myself to deal with something that's a little more important. I'll arrange a tactical air strike on their headquarters in New York, if I have to.”

 

Lucy was taken aback by the sudden aggressiveness he displayed, but also by his arrogance, more obvious now than it had been on the plane. “Has anyone ever told you that you're kind of. . .”

 

“Arrogant? Yeah, plenty of times.” Desmond snorted under his breath. “I learned from the best, after all.”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, March 13 th, 1195**

\- - -

 

“Don't wake him,” the physician warned, speaking in hushed tones. “And don't stay too long.”

 

Desmond nodded. He couldn't bring himself to speak, anyway. He could hardly bring himself to look at Malik, who was as white as the sheet that covered him from the neck down. That there in the bed wasn't the man who had trained Desmond for the last two and a half years. This was someone else, some frail stranger with Malik's face, his shock of black hair. Malik's breath was low and wet, barely audible.

 

The physician retreated, patting Desmond on the shoulder before he went. He said nothing about the blood still on Desmond's clothes, in his hair, on his skin.

 

The physicians' wing of Masyaf was a long, narrow chamber, its windows facing north so the occupants of the beds standing side by side along one wall wouldn't have to bear the brunt of the sun. The air smelled of herbs and bitter smoke. The physicians burned incense in large, metal bowls, to keep away flies and other insects, and herbs to ease their patients' breathing.

 

Desmond had always suspected they mainly kept those metal bowls around to mask the stench of blood, of vomit, of split bowels and sawed-off bones that were a rather common occurrence in Masyaf's everyday conduct. Medicinal standards in Arabic countries were higher than anywhere else in the world, in the High Middle Ages, but still much had to be left to chance and uncaring gods.

 

He looked at the sheet that covered Malik. It was rising and sinking steadily with Malik's breath. Desmond hadn't asked what, exactly, Swami's men had done to him, but they must have hurt him badly. He'd been in the physicians' wing since the early morning. The physician on night duty said he hadn't recovered consciousness even once.

 

Tentatively, Desmond extended a hand and touched the sheet where it hung over the edge of the bed. He lifted it – closed his eyes; no, this he didn't want to see – and slowly felt his way along, until his fingertips brushed skin that felt clammy. Malik's lax fingers twitched against his, then closed around them when Desmond slipped his hand into Malik's palm.

 

A reflex, nothing more.

 

He pulled his hand back and smoothed down the sheet. He should leave. Malik needed his rest. There was nothing Desmond could do here, except sit at the bedside. He probably _should_ leave, before he ran into a certain someone – if that heartless bastard Altaїr had any honor at all, he'd at least visit Malik.

 

 _Perhaps when he's done parading his wife around the fortress_ , Desmond thought.

 

The thought filled him with anger. For the rest of the day following Swami's betrayal and Altaїr's unexpected return, Desmond had stuck to high places that were inaccessible to people taller and heavier than him. He'd watched the proceedings from the top of walkways, towers, windowsills and ledges, always keeping an escape route open, should someone decide to get too close.

 

Assassins had cleaned the blood from the floors. Assassins had herded Swami's surviving men into the grand hall of Masyaf and into the dungeons from there on. Assassins had begun repairing the damage caused by the attack.

 

And there had been Altaїr, supervising, talking to others, with that woman at his side. He'd been gone for so long and then, suddenly, he was everywhere.

 

Once or twice, Altaїr's head lifted, as though he knew Desmond was watching. He probably did know: Desmond had learned long ago that there wasn't much that escaped Altaїr's attention. But Altaїr hadn't sought him out or spoken to him. Perhaps he also knew, on some level, that Desmond currently wasn't in a state of mind fit to be around others, much less introduce his wife to.

 

First impressions, and all that.

 

Desmond slipped off the chair the physician had carried to Malik's bedside for visitors to sit on. As carefully as he could, he leaned in and brushed his lips against Malik's cheek. When he left the long, narrow chamber, he stopped at the open doorway to the small side room where the physician on night duty had his comfortable chair and desk.

 

“Can I come back tomorrow?”

 

“Of course.” The physician gave him a concerned look. “Let me look at that cut above your ear.”

 

“It's nothing. . . just a scratch.” Desmond didn't really want to be touched by anyone, at present.

 

The physician sighed. He indicated a chair in the corner. “Child, you look like you're about to fall over. Sit down and hold still. I don't need your father to come barging in here, demanding an explanation for why his son's ear is rotting off.”

 

That was the tone of voice universally applied by all people in the medical profession, easily recognizable. It was the tone of voice that allowed no argument. Desmond sat and held still while the physician washed the long cut along the side of his head with diluted vinegar and applied a fatty salve. The vinegar stung, and the scent of the salve made Desmond mildly nauseous.

 

“Now go to bed.” The physician cleaned his hands on a piece of linen. “You're shaking.”

 

Was he? Desmond couldn't tell. He only knew that the thought of going to bed automatically brought up images of Swami. He wondered if the corpse was still there, with the dagger sticking out of one eye socket, and now Desmond felt more than just mildly nauseous, swallowing against bile rising in the back of his throat.

 

He left before the physician got the idea Desmond might need more help or, heavens forbid, sent someone to Altaїr, to come collect his son.

 

Masyaf was quiet as he slowly made his way toward the grand hall. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at the walkway, undecided. His room was altogether too close to Altaїr's room, which had been Altaїr's and Malik's room, and now was Altaїr's and his wife's room. Just the thought of them, in there, while Malik was in the physician's wing, made Desmond angry all over again.

 

But the physician had been right: he needed to lie down. He'd been up since the early morning, and it was the middle of the night now. He was probably in a mild state of shock, and what good would it do anyone, if he ended up collapsing because he kept himself awake needlessly. It wouldn't help Malik recover any faster.

 

Wearily, Desmond trudged up the stairs and turned down the hallway that led to his room. There was a light shining through the crack under the door to Altaїr's room. He ignored it, the small hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end as he peered into his room. There was no corpse. The windows were open, letting in fresh, cool air. His bed had been made, the sheets pulled back invitingly.

 

Desmond shut the door and lit a candle. He pulled off his soiled clothes, scrunching them up into a small ball and throwing them into a corner, and washed at the basin. He needed a bath. He needed a shrink, quite possibly, but that was neither here nor there. Masyaf had no shrinks, only a great number of Assassins, and some of them had killed other Assassins today.

 

Crawling into bed, he once more glanced at the spot on the floor where Swami had lain, the dagger sticking out of his eye socket.

 

Masyaf had _him_ , and he'd killed a person today, for the first time in his life.

 

“Happy fucking birthday,” Desmond said.

 

\- - -

 

His first trip in the morning, after a thorough scrubbing, took Desmond back to the physicians' wing, in the hopes that there had been some change to Malik's condition overnight. He'd slept surprisingly well, waking refreshed and filled with restless energy. He was going to check in on Malik, see if he was awake. Then he'd spend the rest of the day until the evening practicing the fine art of invisibility.

 

He skipped down the corridor, slowing down as the door to the physicians' wing came into view, and stopped entirely once he was through it. Malik already had visitors – two of them, and Desmond's relatively even mood evaporated when he saw Altaїr standing at the foot of Malik's bed. The woman – his _wife_ – sat on the chair Desmond had occupied the night before. One of the physicians also stood at the bed, conversing in soft tones with Altaїr.

 

From his vantage point by the door, it didn't look to as if Malik was awake. He was in the same position he'd been in when Desmond left, still covered with a sheet from the neck down.

 

Desmond took a step back, turned, and walked out into the corridor. He would come back later, when it wasn't quite so crowded in here.

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, March 14 th, 1195**

\- - -

 

Masyaf sat nestled into the mountains that overlooked the Orontes Valley, yielding an astonishing number of places where one could hone their climbing skills. There was still a bit of snow and crusted ice in the spots where the sun didn't reach, cracks and sharp dips in the rough stone, but the sun was warm, spring was on its way, and Desmond explored. He'd stuck to the fortress itself, and the village, in his previous endeavors to further his training when Malik or Rauf hadn't had the time to oversee it; he figured that by now, he was at least passably good and wouldn't end up as a heap of broken bones at the foot of the fortress.

 

There was something rewarding about mastering the sharp rocks, a feeling of triumph, mingled with the pleasant burn of exhaustion, when Desmond managed a particularly difficult spot and then found a place where he could rest for a few minutes, the valley spread out below him. Climbing – and by extension, free-running – had been the one lesson he'd excelled at, at the Farm; it hadn't taken him long, here, to rediscover his love for high places.

 

It also helped him forget, for a while.

 

He wasn't going to kid himself; Desmond _knew_ he couldn't avoid Altaїr forever. He also knew that he was acting as far removed from 'adult' as was possible, but he couldn't help it: Altaїr had left, and he'd stayed gone for so long, and then somewhere in the middle of whatever he'd been doing, he decided that coming back married was a good idea.

 

That bastard.

 

Desmond climbed up and down, sideways and even upside-down, until the sun began to sink. Then he set back out for the fortress.

 

Altaїr's wife met him halfway.

 

She was coming up the winding mountain path, confidence in her long strides. She wore a short tunic, plain, belted at the waist, and breeches tucked into high boots. She was alone, and it didn't seem to bother her; Desmond, who'd slowed down considerably once he caught sight of her, wondered at that. The women he'd seen so far, from the village and with the trade caravans, acted quite differently. Clearly the woman wasn't of Arabic descent, but it wasn't just that.

 

She walked like a man. Even her posture was that of someone two heads taller than her, someone who'd had their share of combat and knew what they were capable of. It wasn't something he'd seen among the hard-working female population of Masyaf, and the few women who traveled with the caravans had acted like pretty decoration, demure and coquettish.

 

Desmond considered taking a detour through the tall rocks that lined the mountain path. But that _would_ have been more than childish. He stepped to one side of the path instead, leaving her enough space to pass if she was headed into the mountains herself, and hoped she wasn't going to make conversation.

 

“Hello,” she said, dashing his hope.

 

One of her hands rested casually on the hilt of a long dagger tucked behind her belt. Desmond took note of that, and replied carefully, “Hello.”

 

“I'm Maria.” She studied him, from his toes to his hair, and gently shook her head. “You do look a lot like him.”

 

Boy, had he heard _that_ before. He wondered if she knew – not only about him and how he'd come to be Altaїr's 'son', but also about Malik. Somehow, he doubted Altaїr had mentioned that prior to becoming amarried man, he'd spent his time _fucking_ a man.

 

An epiphany hit him, with so much clarity that Desmond almost laughed, surprised he hadn't thought of it that way before. She was Altaїr's _wife_. She was, very likely, another of Desmond's ancestors!

 

He looked at her, trying to find something, anything of himself in her face. Maria bore his intense, silent study. She was probably used to being stared at. She had pale skin, a reddish tint across her nose and cheeks that hinted at sunburn, and dark brown hair. Her eyes were of a light color, something between green and gray.

 

Desmond saw nothing of himself in her face. It was a little disappointing, really.

 

“I had this whole speech planned out,” Maria said, when the silence began to stretch between them. “He hasn't told me how things are done, here,” a flick of her hand indicated Masyaf, “and I don't know if you'd even want it. . .” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and gave him a tentative smile. “Your mother is gone, and I know I can't replace her, but I can try.”

 

Altaїr hadn't told her, then. Staring up at Maria, Desmond didn't know what to say, so he settled for nodding. He could hardly tell her that currently, he'd like nothing more than for her to never have set foot in Masyaf. It wasn't fair towards her, but all Desmond could think of, again, was Malik in his sickbed, pale and silent.

 

“I must go,” Desmond said. “It is getting late.”

 

He ran down the path without waiting for an answer, inwardly seething. Thankfully, Maria didn't call him back or worse, offered to return to the fortress together. That would have been awkward – even more awkward than the entire situation was, already, and he couldn't help wondering if Altaїr hadn't sent Maria to look for him, so they could have their little chit-chat somewhere out of the way.

 

Desmond went straight for the physicians' wing. There was a different physician on duty than previously, a stern-looking, gray-haired man, who lifted a finger to his lips as Desmond jogged through the door, but made no comment otherwise and disappeared back into the little side room.

 

Approaching Malik's bed quietly, still catching his breath, Desmond noted Malik's position had changed. He no longer lay on his back but on his side, the sheet around his hips. The sight of bandages wrapped around his upper body, even his arms, made something in Desmond's stomach tighten unpleasantly. A cup of water and a bowl of cold soup stood on a small table at the foot of the bed.

 

Desmond walked around the bed once. The bandages were clean, not blood-soaked, but there were so many of them! Parts of Malik's chest and back showed ugly bruises, the skin's discoloration made more obvious by Malik's pallor. He must have lost a lot of blood, to be that pale.

 

Those bastards had tortured him, to reveal the location of the Apple. When he didn't, Swami must then have drawn the only conclusion left.

 

Desmond wrapped his arms about himself, returning to the other side of the bed. Malik's face was relaxed, the fingers of his sole hand curled loosely. He lay on his good arm, and for the first time Desmond had an unobstructed view of the amputated one, the skin over the stump heavily scarred and uneven.

 

Twice now Malik had ended here, in a sickbed, because of that cursed Apple of Eden.

 

“I'm sorry,” Desmond whispered.

 

He stayed until the physician walked around the chamber, lighting candles. Once or twice, Malik's fingers twitched around Desmond's, reflexes again, nothing more. Reluctant, and only at the physician's insistence, Desmond left, promising himself he'd come back first thing in the morning.

 

When he stepped into the corridor outside the physicians' wing, Altaїr stood at one of the narrow windows, gazing out into the courtyard.

 

“Maria thinks you're being shy with strangers,” Altaїr said. He tilted his head a little, but his gaze remained fixed outside. “Are you? I think you're a little too old for that kind of behavior.”

 

The implied criticism stung, but Desmond wasn't going to take the bait. “I'm being shy with _assholes_.”

 

“Don't be rude. She has done nothing to you.”

 

“I wasn't talking about her.” Although the door to the physicians' wing had shut behind him, Desmond kept his voice low and even. He wasn't going to give into the temptation to shout or rage.

 

“Ah.”

 

Involuntarily, Desmond's hands curled into fists. “That's all you've got to say?”

 

Now Altaїr did look at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “I wasn't aware that I owe you any explanations.”

 

The same ice-cold, calm fury he'd felt when he decided to kill Swami overcame Desmond. Clinically, he assessed Altaїr – his posture, his expression, the location of his weapons, visible and hidden. Going up against him would be suicide; Altaїr would kill him before Desmond even managed to land a single blow. But for the first time since they'd laid eyes upon one another, Desmond imagined where he _would_ strike, silently counting all the soft, vulnerable places, bare or hidden by robe, cloth and leather.

 

Consciously, he relaxed his hands. It was a tactic, he realized. He had an impulsive personality, easily riled, and Altaїr had seen that, very early on. Right now Altaїr was exploiting what he saw as a weakness, as any Assassin would.

 

“No,” Desmond said, “you don't.” Was that a flicker of surprise, in Altaїr's eyes? He couldn't be sure, and honestly didn't care. “Just tell me one thing. Does she know?”

 

Altaїr's gaze flicked to the door behind Desmond. “No. And I'd prefer it to stay that way.” He looked back at Desmond, stepping away from the window, straightening up. “What I have with her has nothing to do with what I have with Malik.”

 

'Have'? Desmond allowed that to sink in. Apparently Altaїr believed he could have his cake and eat it, too; now the only question that needed answering was, who was going to be the spouse, and who was going to be the secret lover: Maria, or Malik? Remembering how Altaїr had paraded Maria around the fortress, showing her everything and introducing her to everyone, Desmond thought he already knew the answer.

 

“You're not going to tell her,” Altaїr said, a note of warning creeping into his tone of voice.

 

Desmond made a 'who, me?' gesture. “I'm being shy with strangers, remember?” This time, the surprise crossing Altaїr's face was obvious. “Good night, _father_.”

 

Performing a mock bow, Desmond continued down the corridor. Altaїr didn't stop or call him back.

 

\- - -

 

Maria joined him for breakfast in the kitchens, in the morning, ignoring the cooks' bug-eyed stares when she walked in, clad in breeches and the same tunic she'd worn the previous day. Instead of a dagger, she carried a sword, belted at her side. She looked around until she saw him, came over, and plunked down on a seat across the table, sitting in a very unladylike manner.

 

“Good morning,” she greeted, and yawned widely. “Sleep well?

 

“Yes, thank you.”

 

Maria eyed his bowl with interest. “What's that you're having?”

 

“ _Fetté_.” It was flat bread, topped with a mixture of strained yoghurt, chick peas and olive oil to serve as a foundation for whatever leftovers the cooks decided to add. This morning, there were cold pieces of roast chicken.

 

“Is it any good?”

 

Desmond nodded; he'd lost all appetite already, and shoveled the next spoonful into his mouth more for the want of a filling meal, rather than the taste. Maria was served with a bowl of her own and tucked in with a healthy appetite. If the cooks' unabashed staring bothered her, she didn't show it.

 

Desmond felt almost sorry for the woman. None of this was her fault. He hoped she wasn't actually going to go through with the idea that she had to perform the role of a mother replacement for him. That would be so very awkward, and there _would_ eventually come the point where Maria realized Desmond wasn't truly a child. So far, everyone had. Desmond had kept up his end of the ruse in Altaїr's absence, sticking to Malik and eventually Rauf; Rauf had never outright said anything, but he'd soon stopped treating Desmond like a little boy and talked to him as he would to an adult.

 

It had been sort of an open secret, between Malik, Rauf and Desmond.

 

Now Rauf was dead, Malik was still unconscious due to injuries, and Desmond was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't permanently move into the mountains, like a hermit, just to stay out from underfoot, away from _attention_ he didn't want, until Altaїr finally deemed him tall enough to train in weapons and their usage.

 

“You're very quiet.”

 

Desmond looked up. Maria's bowl was empty, and she sat with her elbows on the table, watching him. “Sorry. Just woolgathering.”

 

“Your English is superb. Altaїr told me you speak my language, as he does, but I think you're better than him.”

 

Damn. Back to that old problem – that internal translation program the Apple of Eden had apparently installed right in his head, which enabled him to speak the local Arabic dialect. He hadn't even noticed, or considered, that Maria would speak another language.

 

“I've had good teachers,” Desmond lied, hoping to _god_ Altaїr hadn't told her a different story.

 

“I see.” Maria smiled cheerfully. “Your father and I are riding into the valley this morning. Are you going to accompany us?”

 

“No, I'd rather stay here.” Her face fell a little, and he added quickly, “I have to train.”

 

Maria's eyebrows rose a fraction. “At your age? For what?”

 

 _The end of the world_.

 

The words didn't make it past Desmond's lips. He shrugged, eating another spoonful of _fetté_ , and gave her the best sincere smile he could muster. “To be like my father, one day.”

 

\- - -

 

Malik was awake when Desmond walked through the door in the evening. He was sitting up in bed, pillows propped behind him. His familiar black robe rested over his shoulders, but his upper body was bare under it, showing the bandages. One of the physicians sat on the chair at the side of the bed, applying salve to a long cut on the inside of Malik's forearm, which Desmond only now saw had been sewn shut.

 

Malik's head lifted when Desmond approached, and one of his eyebrows lifted. Self-consciously, Desmond rubbed at a patch of dirt on his tunic; he'd spent the day in the mountains again, and one thing had led to another, and then he'd discovered a shallow, moss-covered cave behind the waterfall that turned into the river further down.

 

None of that mattered.

 

“Careful,” the physician warned when Desmond fairly ran up to them. “He's still weak.”

 

“I am not weak,” Malik said primly. “Now get on with that salve, Bakri. I haven't got all day.”

 

Bakri snorted into his beard. “You have as much time as _I_ say.”

 

Desmond rounded the bed and climbed up on it, ignoring Bakri's dark glare. He wanted to throw his arms around Malik. Instead, he literally sat on his hands, to keep himself from doing anything foolish. Malik was awake! Still pale, and the skin around his eyes looked bruised, and he spoke more softly than Desmond was used to, from him, but he was awake. He was alive.

 

Desmond felt 50 pounds lighter.

 

“There,” Bakri said, wrapping a fresh layer of bandages around Malik's forearm. He gathered up his supplies and rose. “Now try not to move around too much. I'm serious, Malik. These wounds do need time to heal.”

 

“I know. Thank you.”

 

“I want to hug you,” Desmond said as soon as he was reasonably certain the physician was out of earshot, “but I think this guy's going to murder me if I do.”

 

“I'll murder you if you don't.” Malik lifted the stump of his amputated arm, the unpinned sleeve of his robe flapping.

 

It was all the invitation Desmond needed. They'd never had the type of relationship that involved hugging, but damn it, Malik had almost died and still looked like death warmed over, and Desmond could literally feel the tension flowing out of himself. Carefully, he rose to his knees and wrapped his arms around Malik's neck.

 

“Hey,” Malik said, after a minute, “none of that.”

 

“I'm sorry.” Desmond pulled back. He was grinning so widely his cheeks hurt, but his sight was blurry. He reached up and wiped the tears away. “I couldn't find you, and then there were all these Assassins at the foot of the stairs, and Swami said he'd. . .I'm sorry.” He laughed, a little hiccup sound. “I'll shut up now.”

 

Malik reached over with his sole hand, ruffling Desmond's hair. “It takes more than a little ambush to kill me.” He smirked, gray eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. “You should have seen the looks on their faces when they realized the 'cripple' can still fight.”

 

Desmond could imagine it. He'd seen Malik fight, after all.

 

“But tell me,” Malik continued, “what happened to Swami? Is he still alive?”

 

“No. I killed him.”

 

“ _You_ \- ?” Malik looked flabbergasted. “Huh. Altaїr only said he'd been taken care of. I assumed. . .”

 

Some of the elevation Desmond felt made way for trepidation. “Altaїr was here?”

 

“Yes, earlier. I've been awake since noon.” Malik arranged himself a little more comfortably against the pillows at his back, but kept shooting him near-incredulous looks. “How did you kill him?”

 

“With a dagger. And, uh,” Desmond thought back to that moment when Swami's eyes, wide with terror and agony, had been fixated on a certain, golden ball, “the Apple might have helped a little.”

 

Malik rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “You and Altaїr both, I swear. . .” He shook his head, winced; after a little more arranging, he said, “Congratulations, then. Apple or no Apple, I must admit I was fearing the worst when Swami left the Mentor's study, when he didn't find it there. I'm glad you got that son of a dog. I suppose all that premature training really did pay off.”

 

Unease settled in the pit of Desmond's stomach. He wondered if Malik knew, about Maria, about Altaїr's marriage to her. He wouldn't put it past Altaїr, to break those news to him the moment Malik opened his eyes – in fact, after last evening's conversation, there wasn't much he suspected Altaїr incapable of. And Malik would know how to hide that he knew; the man had the mother of all poker faces.

 

But if Altaїr _hadn't_ told, perhaps because Malik was still recovering. . .

 

Only now did Desmond realize what an awkward position he was in. _He_ knew. And Malik had a right to know, but Desmond couldn't just tell him. Or could he? No. That was Altaїr's business; it was between Malik and Altaїr, and if Malik later held it against him that he hadn't said a word, he'd deal with it.

 

“You must be tired,” Malik said, eying him curiously. “You're normally not that quiet.”

 

“I was training.” Desmond summoned a smile. “I'm sorry, yeah, I'm tired.”

 

“Well, it's late,” Malik nodded at the windows, which showed a darkly blue sky, “and I think I could use some sleep myself.”

 

“I'll come back tomorrow,” Desmond promised, climbing off the bed.

 

“Bring me some of my books, from my room. I swear, if I spend another afternoon staring at these walls, I'll go mad.”

 

Malik's room. Now Altaїr's and Maria's room. Desmond forced another smile. “I will. Good night.”

 

He stayed in the doorway long enough to watch Bakri sort out the pillows, and listened to the lighthearted banter between the two men. Perhaps Bakri would break the news to him, without meaning to, as the Assassins in the courtyard had, to Desmond.

 

He stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut. Altaїr stood at the window again, but this time his back was turned to it, and his arms were crossed over his chest. The hood was up, and it turned in Desmond's direction.

 

“I didn't say a word.” Really, did Altaїr think so little of him? “Neither to him, nor to her.”

 

“I heard.”

 

Of course. Altaїr didn't only have eyes at the back of his head, he also had the ears of a bat. Desmond looked up, trying to see Altaїr's expression, but what little light was left was behind him, casting the face under the hood into impenetrable shadow. “So is this going to be our little secret? Something I'm not supposed to tell? What about the others? The guards, the cooks, the physicians?”

 

“I've instructed the physicians to keep it to themselves. I'll tell Malik tomorrow.”

 

“I see. Well, good luck with that.” There wasn't really anything else for them to be talking about, was there? Desmond headed down the corridor. He hadn't taken more than three steps, however, when Altaїr overtook him and blocked his path. “What?”

 

“Why does it bother you so much?” Genuine curiosity colored Altaїr's question. “Malik isn't your mother. I am not your father. And yet you act as though I have to justify myself to you.”

 

Desmond felt as though Altaїr had just punched him in the stomach. He stared up. And the longer he stared, the calmer he became.

 

“Well,” he said, “let me break it down for you. I'll give you that it wasn't your fault that I ended up like this,” Desmond indicated himself, “and that it probably would have been better for everyone involved if I'd gotten here all big and ready to be trained. But I didn't. I got here _helpless_ , just tall enough to walk on my own, completely dependent on you.”

 

Altaїr shifted, arms uncrossing.

 

Desmond was on a roll. “You made me feel welcome. You could have acted like the biggest asshole under the sun and I wouldn't have been in any position to stop you, but you didn't. You're right: Malik isn't my mother, and you're obviously not my father. . . but for a while there it felt like you _were_. Like you _both_ were something I've never had.”

 

“I -”

 

“And then you left. Poof, gone.” Desmond slapped his palms together, the sound echoing off the walls. “One message. Then nothing. We were wondering if you were even still alive, for two and a half _years_. And then you come back married, acting as if it's your god-given right and everyone had better play along, and you have the _nerve_ to ask why it _bothers_ me?”

 

Altaїr said nothing, standing in front of him absolutely motionless and silent.

 

Desmond slumped. He was tired now, that glacial calm settling inside like a blanket. He also felt relieved – he hadn't planned on all the emotional vomit he'd just spewed up, but it was out now, and he didn't regret it. Altaїr could make of it whatever he wanted.

 

“Good night,” Desmond said. “I hope that little love triangle, or whatever it is you're planning, works out for you. Just keep me the hell out of it.” He stepped around Altaїr, heading for the grand hall. “I'm done with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To note, an official Abstergo/Templar headquarters is, to my knowledge, never mentioned. I just put it in New York for the sheer heck of it.
> 
> Also, no, Lucy isn't going to turn into a secret slash fangirl. 
> 
> I realize I've turned Altair into a bit of an ass, in this and the previous chapters. Like I think I said before, I prefer a bit of realism; no matter how much of a slasher I am, he _had_ to marry/sire a bloodline, or there wouldn't have been anything to fangirl over, for us, now. Redemption, in small doses, is on its way of being written.


	7. SEVEN

_**Chapter SEVEN** _

\- - -

**Tallahassee, United States of America, September 17 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

Three days after they'd settled into the Tallahassee safe house, Lucy admitted to herself that she wasn't going to be of much use when it came to sifting through a few centuries' worth of historical documents, relics and folklore. She was no historian; Shaun happily loaned her a laptop and several full portable hard drives, telling her what to look for, but after four hours of reading, the lines were blurring in front of Lucy's eyes, the grainy photographs of ancient stone tablets, scrolls and historical landmarks were all beginning to look the same, and the back of her neck was beginning to itch under Rebecca's glares.

 

Lucy turned around in her chair. “You want to duke it out? I don't know, maybe get it out of your system? Slap me again? Would that help?”

 

Shaun's rapid tying stopped. Rebecca, who'd set up the Animus 2.0 – 'Baby', as she fondly referred to the machine – in a corner of the 8th floor and sat next to it, fingered a small crescent wrench.

 

“You'd fight me?” Rebecca asked, a glint to her eyes.

 

“Why not?” Lucy rolled her shoulders. She was in the mood for it, too.

 

“Now, now, ladies,” Shaun began, swiveling around on his chair. “There's no need for violence.”

 

“I disagree,” Rebecca said, rising.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Lucy said.

 

“Not here!” Shaun said hurriedly. He rose, putting himself between them, hands raised in a placating gesture. “There is a ton of sophisticated and quite delicate equipment on this floor. If you absolutely must resort to fisticuffs, do it _elsewhere_.”

 

Lucy headed for the stairs, Rebecca on her heels. Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw Shaun reaching for his cellphone, giving them both worried glances.

 

“Fifth floor,” Rebecca said. “Storage space, lots of room.”

 

The fifth floor of the Tallahassee safe house was empty except for a few old desks stacked against one wall. Lucy switched on the overhead lights, automatically taking note of obstacles: two supporting pillars, the desks, a bit of discarded wrapping paper in one corner. Nothing that would hinder her, nothing that Rebecca could turn into a weapon.

 

“I'm not armed,” Rebecca said, shoving up the sleeves of her one-piece jumpsuit.

 

Lucy held up both arms, to show they were bare. She hadn't worn a hidden blade in years. “Small blade in my heel. Not gonna use it.”

 

“Well, then,” Rebecca said, “let's get to it,” and attacked.

 

Lucy was on the defensive for the first two or three minutes, until she adapted. Female Assassins received the same training their male colleagues did; still, women tended to be smaller and lighter than men, less muscular unless they spent a lot of time lifting weights. Rebecca compensated for her lack of height and muscle the way most female Assassins did: speed.

 

Lucy had spent the last four years training with men, when she'd had the time, and needed a few minutes to adjust. When she did, her ribs were already aching. Rebecca may not have worn a hidden blade, but she still performed the characteristic punches and jabs, striking with the palm of her hand instead of her knuckles. She landed two solid hits to Lucy's ribs; the third, aimed at Lucy's throat, never hit its mark.

 

Lucy had gotten her groove back.

 

There was something exhilarating about fighting an opponent who didn't pull their punches, and Rebecca certainly wasn't aiming to _not_ hurt her. She was fast, too, her moves executed with precision, belying the image of a computer nerd most people got when they saw Rebecca for the first time. Unlike Shaun, she _was_ a fully trained Assassin.

 

They circled each other like rabid dogs, the only sounds their panted breaths and the patter of their feet.

 

“Why?” Rebecca asked. She had a bloody nose from a well-placed punch, but hadn't even bothered to wipe away the blood. “Explain it to me.”

 

Lucy snorted. “William Miles.”

 

“That's it? You threw away a lifetime's worth of training, of belonging, your ideals, over one man?” Rebecca's tone of voice held contempt. “What'd he do to you? Left you hanging? You were _trained_ to operate on your own. We all are.”

 

“It's not just that.” Lucy stopped, hands pushed into her hips to catch her breath. Rebecca and she were evenly matched; they could spend the next two hours beating each other into bloody pulps with neither of them coming out the winner. “Order or chaos. I chose order.”

 

“And a world under Templar rule?” Rebecca bared her teeth. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? A world full of slaves to do your bidding, _Queen_ Lucy?”

 

“Fuck's sake!” Lucy snapped. “You honestly think I knew they were going to use the Apple of Eden for that?”

 

Rebecca stopped moving as well. “...yes?”

 

“God. No, I didn't know. What, you think they recruited me and then told me every detail about everything they were planning?” Lucy huffed out a disgusted breath. “Don't be ridiculous, Becca. The Templars don't work like that. Neither do the Assassins, for that matter – or did William ever completely lay his plans open, for any of you?”

 

Rebecca frowned, chewing on her lip. Contend to have made her point, Lucy fell back into a ready stance. After days – weeks, months – of relative immobility, fighting felt good. She'd almost forgotten how rewarding it was, to test an opponent's mettle, to test herself against another trained fighter.

 

“Well?” Lucy circled the other woman slowly.

 

Shaun stuck his head around the door. “Desmond says if he's going to have to hide a corpse when he comes back, he won't be happy.” Cautiously, the British researcher entered. He looked at Rebecca. “Seriously. What does it matter? Lucy's here now, and she's helping us. Can we maybe postpone the stabby business until we're done saving the world?”

 

Rebecca, who'd moved only enough to keep Lucy in her line of sight, wiped at her bloody nose. Her gaze was iron, and she clearly wasn't happy, but she said, “All right. Truce?”

 

Lucy straightened up. “Truce.”

 

Shaun released a relieved sigh. “Let's get back to work.”

 

Locating the different vaults Those Who Came Before had built all over the world was time-consuming work; it was like searching for tiny needles in a very large haystack. Although that powerful, ancient race had passed into legend untold centuries ago, their knowledge had seeped into human history, leaving a breadcrumb trail. The problem was how to filter out the information they needed.

 

Before Desmond drafted Lucy into joining their cause, Shaun had found three vaults, one in Central Asia and two in South Africa. The problem was that _Desmond_ was the one who needed to enter these vaults; he was the only one who knew what to look for. Currently, he was somewhere on the African south coast, searching for clues: about Juno, about a way to prevent her from being released, about a way to save his life.

 

Lucy initially wished she'd gone with him, but then Shaun had muttered something about William possibly joining his son in South Africa. If she could arrange it, she wasn't going to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary in William's company. Even with Desmond as a buffer between them, Lucy had a suspicion things would turn ugly very quickly.

 

“Where's Ezio?” Rebecca asked once they were back on the 8th floor and settled in their respective spots.

 

“Boston.”

 

Lucy pulled up a translated text passage about ancient Greece on her loaned laptop. “What's in Boston?”

 

Shaun's fingers were already flying over his keyboard again. “Another Piece of Eden, I believe.”

 

\- - -

 

Ezio returned a day later, looking a little worse than when he'd left. Lucy sat in the communal living room on the 7th floor when he walked in and flung a worn duffel bag into a corner. It was late; Rebecca had already gone to bed. Lucy wasn't sure if Shaun slept at all, or if he just took catnaps hunched over his keyboard. She'd retired three hours ago, head pounding from reading.

 

“Complete loss,” Ezio announced, shedding his jacket. “If there ever was another artifact in Boston, it's gone now. The place was in ruins.” He headed for the line of fridges. “You're still up?”

 

Lucy glanced at the wall clock hanging above the TV plasma screen. It was almost midnight. “Can't sleep.”

 

He made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, apparently more interested in foraging for something to eat than conversation. Watching him, Lucy again wondered how he took it all in stride: the world around him had to be completely different from the one he'd been born into. She'd up to now assumed he'd somehow come to this time when Desmond returned to it, 2 years ago. That hardly seemed enough time to get used to everything modern people took for granted.

 

Ezio leaned against the kitchen island, a bunch of grapes in one hand and a can of coke in the other. “I'm amazed you're still here. I thought you'd run the moment Desmond turned his back.”

 

“And go where? I know what's coming. Shaun showed me the recordings of Desmond's Animus sessions.” She'd asked to see them, practically the minute Desmond was out the door. Hearing him speak about the end of the world was one thing; _seeing_ the visions he'd experienced through the Apple had left a lasting impression on her, once and for all scattering the last iota of doubt Lucy might still have harbored, deep inside. “Would you prefer it if I attempted to run?”

 

Ezio ate a few grapes right off the stem. He washed them down with a swig of coke. “I don't share his depth of belief.”

 

“In his plans?”

 

“In you.”

 

There was something unpleasant about the way Ezio was looking at her. Lucy recalled little about Ezio's early life; Clay Kaczmarek – Abstergo's Subject 16 and Desmond's predecessor in the Animus – had already been a little unhinged by the time they discovered Ezio in his ancestral DNA memories, making it impossible to pin what Clay saw in the Animus to an exact time line. And then, when they'd just started going through what little they had, Clay killed himself.

 

Lucy wondered if Desmond knew about that, too. If he did – if he knew about _her_ role in Clay's unfortunate and premature death – it was truly a small miracle he hadn't killed her.

 

She focused on Ezio again. Thinking about Clay Kaczmarek brought up feelings of deep-seated guilt. “How did you two meet?”

 

“I am not Desmond.” Ezio ate another grape, giving her a level gaze. “I'm not going to regale you with stories to pass the time, Templar.”

 

“I'm not sure I am a Templar anymore.”

 

He snorted. “That makes you a turncoat, _twice_. Even worse.”

 

Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. “I'm not allowed to change my mind? What happened to the new ideals Altaїr introduced to the order? You know, the right to have your own opinion, and all that?”

 

Ezio's eyes flashed dangerously. “Having your own opinion and betraying your people are hardly the same thing. You could have just walked away, the moment you no longer agreed with the Assassin cause. Instead, you sided with the Templars. You may call that a change of mind, but I call it betrayal.”

 

They were headed for an argument. Lucy eyed Ezio's glare and standoffish posture, wondering if he was deliberately trying to needle her. The idea of offering him to duke it out, the way she'd offered Rebecca a fight, was not going to end in her favor, she could tell – Ezio was probably itching for her to make such an offer, and Lucy wasn't going to kid herself into believing she stood a chance against him.

 

Would Desmond mind terribly, to come back to Tallahassee and her corpse? He'd said before he didn't care if she was dead or alive: Lucy hadn't forgotten it. She may no longer be living on borrowed time, but Desmond probably wasn't going to shed a tear if she somehow died. It was something she felt deserved remembering, from time to time, no matter how well she seemed to get along with him.

 

“I'm not going to start a fight with you,” Lucy murmured, deliberately averting her gaze. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

 

Ezio left the room without another word.

 

\- - -

**Tallahassee, United States of America, September 20 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

“Found it!” Shaun exclaimed excitedly.

 

“Found what?” Lucy asked, tiredly rubbing at her eyes and rising, welcoming the break from her own, tedious reading. God, but the ancient Greeks had been a bunch of long-winded bastards. She'd been at it since the early morning, with only a break for lunch.

 

“Found what?” Desmond echoed, walking through the door.

 

“Another vault! Er, hi, when did you get. . .back. . .” Shaun, who'd swiveled around on his chair, trailed off.

 

Lucy, already halfway to Shaun's desk, stopped. “What the hell happened to _you_?”

 

Desmond wore black from head to toe, but the pale halogen light revealed splatter patterns on his shirt and jeans. He hadn't shaved in days, and there were sweat and dirt in the creases of his skin.

 

“Templars,” he said, flatly, and marched over to Shaun's desk. “Show me what you got.”

 

“Templars?” Lucy joined them. From her position slightly behind Desmond, she could see a tear down the back of his shirt, showing an expanse of tanned skin mottled with bruises and a crusted, shallow cut. “In South Africa?”

 

“Not now.” Desmond threw her a glance over his shoulder. His amber eyes, usually vibrant, were flat and held a measure of hostility. “Shaun. Show me.”

 

Shaun, who'd watched the short exchange with a worried expression, turned back to his computer screen. He pulled up several documents and a satellite map of the United States. “I was using the information you gave me this morning. Here, look at this.” He zoomed in on the map, pulling the Black Creek region into the middle of the screen. “The coordinates match.”

 

This morning? Desmond had been in contact with them via satellite phone over the course of his trip to South Africa, but apparently there were calls Lucy hadn't been privy to. It stung, but she pushed the feeling away and focused on the part of the map Shaun had magnified.

 

“I don't see anything,” she said. There were no historical landmarks, nothing that looked out of the ordinary. It was farmland, as far as she could tell. The only thing of some interest were a couple of constructions that at a second look appeared to be a wind energy plant, the type of giant stalks with the rotors at the top that had been cropping up all over the country in recent years.

 

“That's because it's underground,” Desmond said. He took a step back, scratching at a spot on his chest. “Well. Looks like I'm heading back out, then.” After a moment, he added, “Actually, I think we all should go. Start packing.”

 

Lucy noted he had half-moons of red crusted under his fingernails. He smelled, too, of sweat and blood and dust.

 

“So soon?” Shaun's expression showed worry again. “You just back came from Colombia. Take a breather. That vault isn't going anywhere.”

 

Colombia?

 

“It's not a vault.” Desmond headed for the door to the stairwell. “It's the Grand Temple.”

 

Lucy caught up to him on the stairs. She was confused and angry now and didn't bother to hide it. “You don't trust me at all! I thought you were in South Africa.”

 

Desmond turned around on the stairs. “I was. I took a detour on the way back.” A muscle in his jaw was jumping. “I don't have the time to call together the entire team every time I find information that needs to be passed on. Time is of the essence. For all I know, you were asleep when I called Shaun this morning.”

 

She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He was right. Still, it stung – no, it was worse than that. Desmond had spared her life; he'd dropped hints that she still had to 'play a part', but he wasn't even passing on any of the information. “You could have told Shaun to tell me. Why didn't you?”

 

Desmond's eyebrows lifted. “I wasn't aware that I owe you any explanations.”

 

Lucy stared at him, at a loss for words. Altaїr had used these exact same words. Was Desmond even aware he'd taken on some of that long-dead Syrian Assassin's mannerisms?

 

“I see,” she said stiffly. “My mistake. I was under the assumption we were working as a team.” She watched him closely, but Desmond showed no reaction to the criticism. “Tell me, did Malik ever forgive Altaїr?”

 

“We don't have the time for -”

 

“I have _oodles_.”

 

He blinked. “That's. . .”

 

“That's what you said to Altaїr. When you asked for _information_.” Lucy crossed her arms over her chest. “Don't worry, I can multitask: I can pack _and_ listen. Well?”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, March 29 th ,1195**

\- - -

 

Malik came up the winding mountain path, alone. He walked slowly, shielding his eyes against the setting sun and stopping ever so often, probably to catch his breath. The wind tugged at his black robe and black hair. The closer Malik came, the more Desmond wished he could somehow turn himself invisible.

 

Malik stopped at the foot of the mountain wall. “Did you know?”

 

Ten feet above the ground, sitting on a narrow ledge in the rock, Desmond thought about lying, for all of two seconds. He'd timed his visit to the physicians' wing well, this morning; he'd listened at the door to Altaїr's and Maria's room, then knocked when he heard both their voices in conversation. Maria had been smiling, Altaїr's expression teetering between curiosity and suspicion, but Desmond hadn't stopped to make conversation, only randomly pulled a few books off one of the shelves and excused himself. He ran to the physicians' wing, leaving the books on the floor next to the bed while Malik was still asleep.

 

“I knew,” he said. Desmond had spent all day in the mountains, having absolutely no desire to be around, not after Altaїr had told him he was going to break the news to Malik today.

 

“I see.” Malik regarded him for a long moment. Whatever he saw in Desmond's face caused his lips to twitch; it wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't a frown, either. With a slow shake of the head, Malik turned and began the slow walk back toward the fortress.

 

“Wait!” Desmond scrambled down from his perch as fast as he could. He ran after Malik, grabbing a handful of the fluttering, black robe. “I -”

 

Malik reached down and pulled Desmond's hand away from his robe, folding his fingers over Desmond's smaller ones. He squeezed lightly. “It's all right.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Desmond said. There wasn't much else he could say.

 

“For what? You've done me no harm. And Altaїr and I never made any promises. I always knew he would find a wife, some day.” Malik's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Granted, a little beforehand warning would have been nice. But it's done now.”

 

That was about the wrongest thing Desmond had ever heard. “So that's it? You're just going to take it?”

 

Malik released Desmond's hand. “Yes. Now, I should go back before Bakri sends out a search party.”

 

Desmond watched him make his way down the mountain path until Malik was out of sight. He couldn't classify how he felt: betrayed, more on Malik's behalf than his own, though he'd meant every word last night in the corridor outside the physicians' wing. Angry, because he'd expected Malik to do something. _Anything_. Malik hadn't taken any shit from Altaїr before; now he was rolling over?

 

It wasn't right.

 

He returned to his climbing, but even the strenuous activity no longer served to distract him, as it had all day long. Once or twice, Desmond thought about heading back, but that thought was entirely unappealing; perhaps he should see if there wasn't a small hut somewhere in the village, where he could stay. Just the thought of what awaited him in the fortress was enough to make him want to vomit: Altaїr and Maria, the happy couple, every day, everywhere, and Malik around to see it.

 

What was Desmond supposed to do? Forget that it had been Altaїr and _Malik_ for most of his 'life' here, forget what it had meant to him?

 

_Go fuck yourself, dad._

 

He fumbled a grip, losing his hold.

 

_Concentrate, idiot!_

 

Too late. Desmond slid downward, scrambling madly for a hold but finding none. At the last moment, he yanked his head back to avoid cracking his chin against the narrow ledge he'd used as a seat earlier.

 

He hadn't been very high up, but the impact on the hard stone, though Desmond stayed upright, was still hard enough to rattle his teeth. Not to mention it rattled _him_ ; it had been a long time since he failed at something as easy as climbing in this particular spot. He flopped down where he stood and morosely inspected his palms for damage. His rapid descent down the rock had torn open the skin over the ball of his right thumb all the way up to where his index and middle fingers began.

 

Carefully, he flexed his fingers, finding to his relief that none of the muscles seemed to have suffered. Blood dripped onto the ground when he unfolded his fingers again.

 

Mood darkening even more, Desmond glared at the satchel he'd brought, which rested at the foot of the mountain wall. He'd thought to pack a lunch, but not bandages. Great. Now he would _have_ to go back to the fortress. Climbing with an injured hand was the fastest way to broken bones.

 

He made to get up, but was promptly pushed back down by two hands descending on his shoulders. Black cloth billowed around him. Swallowing down a curse – he hadn't heard anyone approach, he needed to be more vigilant – Desmond looked up, expecting to see Malik.

 

It was Altaїr.

 

Desmond let out an annoyed groan. “Go away.”

 

“No.” Altaїr's grip tightened. He sat down, caging Desmond between his thighs. His arm wound around Desmond's middle in a hold tight enough to let on that he wasn't about to let go unless he wanted to, regardless of Desmond's thoughts on the matter. He took a hold of Desmond's right wrist, inspecting the injured hand. “Be glad it wasn't your face down those rocks.”

 

Altaїr's free hand came up, holding a roll of bandages. Quietly seething, Desmond held still while his injured hand was wrapped. He remembered, all too well, the many times Altaїr had held him like this, and how much he'd liked it.

 

“There's no need to cuddle me any longer,” Desmond pointed out testily. “You can drop the act.”

 

Altaїr finished wrapping the wound and tied a neat knot into the ends of the bandage. “It's not an act. It never was.”

 

Desmond scoffed, “Right.”

 

Altaїr let go of Desmond's wrist, but still didn't allow him to get up. He pushed his free hand up under Desmond's chin, also something he'd done before, and exerted gentle pressure until Desmond was forced to look up at him. “Where do you think you'd come from, if I hadn't taken a wife?”

 

It wasn't as if that thought hadn't crossed Desmond's mind already. After all, it was how Altaїr had explained Desmond's existence here and now. But Adha, Desmond's supposed mother, was dead and gone; she wasn't _here_ and Altaїr hadn't brought her back with him, changing everyone's lives in the process. He hadn't married Adha while in a relationship with someone else.

 

“I love them both,” Altaїr said. “Would you deny me that? Force me to choose between them?”

 

That wasn't fair. Desmond wrapped both hands around Altaïr's wrist, ignoring the sting of pain from his injured palm, and attempted to free himself from the grip on his face at least. “Let go.”

 

Altaïr's eyes narrowed. He tightened his hold just enough to be a hair's breadth away from painful. “Answer me.”

 

“While you're manhandling me? Fuck -”

 

“I can sit here all night, until you answer.”

 

“No! For fuck's sake – no, I can't!” Desmond yelled – as much as he could, anyway, with Altaïr's fingers pressing against his cheeks. He dug his fingernails into the back of Altaïr's hand, furious, and stared up into eyes that reflected his own, amber in amber. “Let go, right _now_. You're hurting me.”

 

The pressure let up immediately. Desmond scrambled to get away, but the arm around his middle didn't budge. After a minute's fruitless struggle, he gave up. Altaїr touched the side of Desmond's head, halting when he jerked away, and then tried again, slower.

 

If Altaїr patted his head now, like he was some pet poodle, Desmond was going to lose it. He was this close to losing it, anyway – over the manhandling, the previous days, everything. Every time he'd decided to put as much distance between himself and Altaїr as was possible, to gain some _emotional_ distance as well, the man somehow managed to ruin it, making his head and heart spin. Desmond just couldn't win.

 

But Altaїr only inspected the cut above Desmond's ear. He said, “We should head back. It's getting dark.”

 

Desmond wasn't even surprised when, instead of letting him go, Altaїr rose and lifted him, tucking him into the crook of one arm like he had before, so many times. Altaїr picked up the small leather satchel, handing it to him, and started down the mountain path.

 

Masyaf lay quiet in the gloom when they arrived at the fortress gates. Avoiding to look at Altaїr, though he could tell Altaїr was looking at him, Desmond ignored the guards who greeted them, as well, thoughts turned inward. This was going to be beyond awkward. Even if Malik, against all odds, agreed to Altaïr's little plan of a marriage with benefits, that still left Maria. She was going to _have_ to be kept in the dark about everything. Desmond couldn't imagine any woman would take kindly to a husband who expected her to accept another man in the matrimonial bed, just like that.

 

That meant lying. That mean more pretending, on everyone's part except Maria's. The more Desmond thought about it, the more he realized _this_ was what he absolutely loathed about the entire deal. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair to anyone.

 

The clap of a door drew Desmond's attention. That, and the way Altaїr tensed. Desmond looked up, frowning at Altaïr's deer-in-headlights expression, then around. They were in Altaïr's room – what the hell, did he honestly expect Desmond to spend any _more_ time in his company? - and they weren't alone.

 

Malik sat in a chair by the window, one leg folded over the other, a cup of tea in his sole hand. Maria, clad in a wide, flowing gown for once, her hair open around her shoulders, her own cup of tea in hand, sat on the edge of the bed.

 

Desmond took one look at both their faces and immediately wished to be anywhere else on earth but here.

 

Maria rose. She set her tea cup down on a low table and smoothed over the folds of her gown. “I believe you have some explaining to do.” Her gaze wandered from Altaїr to Desmond. “About so many things.”

 

Desmond froze. Maria knew? He looked at Altaїr, who'd meanwhile regained control over his expression but still was as tense as an iron sheet. “Put me down.”

 

“Going somewhere?” Maria inquired, sweetly.

 

Desmond ignored her. “I want down, _now_.”

 

Mechanically, Altaїr sat him on his feet.

 

“I think you should stay,” Malik said, evenly.

 

“Yes, stay,” Maria said, still with that false, sweet smile. “We're just going to have a conversation, between adults. That includes you, doesn't it?”

 

She did know. Not only about Malik and Altaїr, but also about him. She knew, because Malik had told her. Desmond looked from her to Malik and from Malik to Altaїr again. He'd had enough for one day; he wasn't going to stay unless they tied him to something.

 

“ _This_ ,” he said, pointing between the three of them, “does _not_ include me.”

 

As he was heading down the hallway, he gave in to the sudden, uncontrollable urge to laugh: Altaїr definitely hadn't seen _that_ coming. Desmond had never seen him with such a poleaxed expression before.

 

\- - -

 

Malik found him first, in the morning.

 

Desmond had chosen one of the smaller, out of the way libraries toward the rear of the fortress, after abandoning his initial plan of sleeping somewhere outside. The nights were warm enough for that now, but the guards at the gate wouldn't have let him leave, and he hadn't been in the mood to use the secret stairs in the garden. The libraries, at least, often offered comfortable chairs, blankets for old scholar limbs, and sitting pillows.

 

This particular library boasted the latter, and Desmond woke when the pillow he'd chosen dipped under someone's weight. He slid sideways a little, dragged the blanket away from his face, and squinted against the morning light.

 

Malik sat cross-legged before him, chin cradled in his palm. The edge of a bandage peeked from under the hem of his tunic and the sleeve of his robe. He looked disgustingly awake. “Good morning.”

 

Desmond pulled the blanket back over his head. “Good bye.”

 

Malik chuckled under his breath. “You don't want to hear how our little discussion ended?”

 

“No.” Fuck it – Malik could think him an insufferable brat right now, Desmond didn't care. He wanted nothing to do with that. He rolled himself further into the blanket. “Go away.”

 

“As you wish.” Malik didn't sound particularly put off.

 

The pillow shifted, the cloth of a robe whispered, footsteps echoed, and a door opened and shut.

 

Peace.

 

Of course, peace didn't last: by mid-morning, Desmond's injured palm began to throb in time with the beat of his heart, and when he peeled off the bandage, he saw that the edges of the wound were suspiciously red and swollen-looking. He resolved himself to a trip to the physicians' wing.

 

Bakri was on duty. He turned Desmond's hand this way and that, and judged, “Infected.”

 

The wound was washed, which somehow was more painful an experience than having the cut above his ear washed with diluted vinegar had been. Bakri smeared a thick layer of unguent over Desmond's entire palm, placed a few crushed herbs over it, and bandaged the entire thing.

 

“No climbing,” Bakri said sternly, “no horsing around, no swimming, and stay out of the damn mountains. Come back in the evening, so we can change the bandage.” He narrowed his eyes under bushy brows. “And stop giving me that beaten dog look, it doesn't work on me. If I catch you hanging from anything, or climbing up something. . .”

 

“All right, all right,” Desmond murmured. He knew better than to argue, by now.

 

He went for breakfast in the kitchens. The cooks and helpers were used to him and usually weren't bothered by his presence as long as he stayed out from underfoot.

 

This morning, though, there were more cooks and helpers than was normal. Slaughtered goats were piled high on one of the long wooden tables; in one corner two women were sitting amid a cloud of feathers, plucking a small mountain of chicken, and the head cook, an elderly, stick-thin man, had a wild look in his eyes and was shouting orders at everyone.

 

Desmond walked back out, without breakfast and a little bewildered. What was going on? There wasn't any more activity in the courtyard than was normal. A scholar, sitting with his back leaned against the wall, was snoozing peacefully in the morning sun, an open book on his lap. An Assassin, holding his horse by the reigns, stood in conversation with the gate guards, and they all looked unconcerned.

 

His stomach rumbled, reminding him he'd skipped a few meals between yesterday and this morning. He thought of his satchel, still containing yesterday's lunch: bread and cheese he hadn't eaten because he'd been too busy climbing. Better than nothing. Desmond headed back into the fortress.

 

The door at the end of the hallway was shut. Desmond looked at it, thoughtfully. Malik hadn't seemed angry, when he woke Desmond earlier, but that could mean anything: Malik was a master of faces, letting on nothing when he didn't want to.

 

Perhaps they'd come to a solution that suited them. Perhaps Maria had left. Perhaps Malik was going to.

 

Perhaps Maria and Malik had murdered Altaїr and buried the corpse in the middle of the night.

 

Perhaps they'd had a giant fuck-fest. Some people thought sex solved everything.

 

Perhaps he should mind his own damn business.

 

Desmond walked into his room. The satchel was still where he'd dropped it, on the floor at the foot-end of his bed. Picking it up, Desmond inspected the contents. Still good. He ate a few bites, frowning at his bandaged hand. That was going to put a serious crimp in the tentative plans he'd made last night, before falling asleep. He needed both hands to climb. Obviously he also needed to learn how to climb one-handed, because an enemy wasn't going to _not_ kill him on grounds of having only one working hand, but right now Desmond simply didn't have the strength yet.

 

When he looked up from his hand, Altaїr was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

 

Desmond nearly inhaled a cheese cube.

 

“When you're done coughing up a lung, there's breakfast.” Altaїr hooked a thumb over his shoulder. His hooded head tilted sideways, the corners of his mouth lifting marginally in what could have been a grin, or just a show of teeth. “I suggest you attend.”

 

Tears streaming down his face, throat aching from coughing, Desmond grabbed at his bed for support, heart hammering. He'd forgotten how scarily good Altaїr was at sneaking up on others. “And if I don't?” Because really, breakfast? After last night's events?

 

Altaїr shrugged. “I'll chase you all over Masyaf, if I have to. We both know who'd win.” He turned in the doorway, throwing back over his shoulder, “Also? Rope. Think about _that_.”

 

Desmond thought about it and decided his ego didn't need that kind of beating. Heaving a disgusted sigh, he took a moment to wash his face, ignoring his belly's subtle cramping. He wasn't hungry anymore, at all.

 

Altaïr's room didn't look as though a nuclear explosion had taken place in it last night. Hesitating at the door, Desmond took note of Maria's absence. Malik wasn't there, either. Altaїr was hanging his robe over the back of a chair in a corner, looking surprisingly unconcerned for a man who, as far as Desmond could tell, had lost not only his wife, but also his long-time lover last night.

 

Or hadn't he?

 

A large breakfast was spread on clean linen on the floor, amid the circle of seating pillows at the foot of the bed. There was the usual pile of flat bread, surrounded by plates with cold meat, hummus, _fetté,_ fruit and various other dishes. Experiencing a moment of nostalgia, Desmond toed off his boots and took a seat, feeling tense. This was altogether too much like breakfast two and a half years ago – minus Malik.

 

Altaїr folded himself onto a pillow across from Desmond. “Eat.” He studied Desmond, adding, “You look like a feral desert cat, all skin and bones.”

 

Offended, Desmond pressed his lips together. He wasn't some starved emo waif, wasting away under the weight of the world on his fragile shoulders. He was thin, yes – and that was normal, considering he spent most of his days exercising from the break of dawn until nightfall; that wasn't, as far as he was concerned, a cause for criticism. Enough muscles lined his limbs to make up for the baby fat he'd lost.

 

And what the hell was this, anyway? Altaїr disappeared for two and a half years, reappeared, turned everything upside down, _manhandled_ him, and now pretended nothing had happened?

 

“This is obscene,” Desmond said. “What are you _doing_?”

 

Altaїr looked down at the meat and hummus he'd been piling onto a piece of flat bread. “Eating breakfast.” He lifted an eyebrow. “What does it look like?”

 

“What about Malik? What about _Maria_?” Desmond threw his arms wide. “How can you just sit here and pretend nothing happened?”

 

“I'm not pretending.” Calmly, Altaїr took a bite and chewed, washing his mouthful down with water. “We fall. We pick ourselves up. We go on. If we don't, we might as well lie down and die.”

 

Desmond dropped his arms, frustrated. As far as answers went, that was about as informative as saying the earth was round 'because'. “So that means what, exactly?”

 

“It means,” Altaїr said, “that I lost them both.”

 

\- - -

**Tallahassee, United States of America, September 20 th, 2012**

\- - -

 

“Ouch,” Lucy said.

 

Desmond shrugged. “He had it coming. I didn't feel sorry for him at all.” Setting a pile of clothes into a duffel bag, he added, “I mean, seriously, in Malik's or Maria's stead, would you have agreed to something so asinine?”

 

'Asinine' wasn't the word Lucy would have chosen. The Altaїr Desmond had been describing to her just now bore more than a startling resemblance to the one Lucy had seen in the Animus: arrogant, aloof, careless toward other peoples' wishes and desires. He wasn't at all like the father-like figure he had been to Desmond in the months prior to his journey to Acre, making her wonder if something had happened to him there, to bring about that reversal of character.

 

“I imagine it must've been horrible, living with them after that.”

 

“Kind of.” Desmond zipped the duffel bag shut, heaving it onto the bed and dropping down next to it. “To his credit, he tried his best to keep me out of the worst of it.”

 

“But?”

 

“Well, we were all living under the same roof, and officially Maria was still married to him. Keep in mind that we're talking about Syria in the High Middle Ages here, women had practically no rights, compared to today.” Desmond twitched a smile, teetering on the edge of sadness. “And by that time, she was already pregnant.”

 

Lucy winced. Even today, in this 'modern' age, raising a child alone was still an adventure and a downright hardship unless you were financially independent, which wasn't something most _men_ could claim. Failed marriages were nothing uncommon, neither among the Templars nor the Assassins, not to mention ordinary people.

 

“And that wasn't the only problem,” Desmond continued. “Sure, she could have just up and left, and I think Altaїr even would have let her, pregnant or not. He wasn't that much of an asshole that he didn't recognize it was _his_ fault that had landed Maria in the situation she was in. I guess she could have gone to one of the cities, Acre maybe, or Jerusalem. Maybe even back to England. But. . .well, she was a Templar.”

 

“What?”

 

He grinned. “Maria was the woman Altaїr met while he was chasing after Robert de Sablé, back before he became the brotherhood's Mentor. She was the decoy, at Majd Addin's funeral.”

 

Lucy lined up a few key facts in her mind and laughed, surprised. “One of your ancestors was a _Templar_?”

 

“A rather high-ranking one, at that,” Desmond said. “She was de Sablé's steward, quite a significant position for a woman, back then. And de Sablé was a Templar Grandmaster.”

 

“How did that. . .wait. I can see where this is going.” In fact, the parallels she was seeing now, between Maria's situation and her own, were astounding. “She deserted the Templars when she followed Altaїr to Masyaf.”

 

Desmond nodded. “She told me once that de Sablé raising her to the position of steward hadn't gained her any favors with the rest of the Templars in the Holy Land. She never outright said that they'd hunt her down, but. . . with a child on the way, she probably didn't want to brave the odds.”

 

Lucy hadn't wasted any thought, so far, on what would happen if _she_ was to run into any Templars now. For all she knew, they probably considered her dead, or a hostage. If it was made known that she was here by her own free will, the consequences could potentially be life-threatening.

 

In light of what was going to happen four months down the road, that thought wasn't quite so worrying.

 

“And Malik?”

 

Desmond snorted. “Treated Altaїr like something a dog wouldn't shit on. For a while, at least. He -”

 

Rebecca stuck her head around the door. “Sorry to interrupt the fairytale hour, but Shaun says he's ready to go.”

 

“Finally.” Desmond rose, grabbing two duffel bags in each hand. “Let's hoof it. I'd rather get out of Tallahassee before the evening rush hour happens.”

 

Lucy didn't have much in the way of luggage, Ezio's earlier shopping trip landing her with an additional pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, underwear – of the non-frilly kind, thankfully – and socks. She helped carry duffel bags and boxes with food into the elevator on the 5th floor. Outside, two unmarked black vans were parked at the curb, Ezio standing by one of them with his cellphone pressed to his ear.

 

Shaun came staggering out the door, laden with four laptop bags and a box with cables and keyboards. He eyed the vans with distaste. “Please tell me we're not _driving_ all the way up to New York.”

 

“Plane's waiting at Angels Field. And we're not going to New York just yet.” Ezio snagged a hold of Desmond's arm and tugged him aside, out of earshot. The look on Ezio's face was dark.

 

“We're not?” Shaun asked, surprised. “Why not?”

 

“They got William,” Rebecca said. “Message came in like five minutes ago, through one of the _supposedly_ secure channels. They're holding him in Italy.” She gave Lucy a meaningful glance. “They want to exchange him.”

 

Lucy asked, “For what?”

 

Rebecca smiled thinly. “You.”

 

\- - -

 

The plane that waited for them at Angels Field Airport was the same they had come to Tallahassee with. For the first time, Lucy saw the pilots, two nearly identical men with buzz cuts in dark jumpsuits. She was still reeling under the revelation that William had been captured, and worse, that the Templars were holding him hostage and wanted to exchange Desmond's father for her. What had William been _doing_ in Italy?

 

“He wasn't in Italy when he was captured,” Shaun explained when they were done loading their luggage into the plane's rear compartment. “We've been trying to locate a couple of power sources. We need them to open the doors of the Grand Temple in New York. William was supposed to retrieve one in Egypt.”

 

Lucy took a seat and buckled herself in. This time, it wasn't just her, Desmond and Ezio in the plane: Rebecca and Shaun were there, too. Satellite receivers and laptop computers were scattered over the tables, cables ran across the narrow aisle between the seats, and Rebecca's headphones were plugged into a radio receiver instead of the usual iPod.

 

“How did they manage to contact us in the first place?”

 

Shaun deliberated for a moment. “I suppose William told them. The message was in video format, encrypted and sent through one of his older e-mail addresses.”

 

Lucy nodded. “And he's held where, exactly?”

 

“Rome. Near the Colosseum.”

 

She waited until the plane had taken off, unbuckled her seat belt, and made her way to the front of the plane, where Desmond and Ezio were hunched over a map. They'd been conversing softly in Italian, but stopped when she approached.

 

“I'm not in the mood for story-telling,” Desmond said.

 

“That's not why I'm here. I know the Rome facility, I've been there.” Lucy took a seat across from them. “I hope you're not seriously considering making that exchange.”

 

“Of course not.” Desmond leaned back in his seat, looking at her, _through_ her.

 

Ezio, at his side, laughed softly. “We don't make deals with Templars.”

 

“Then what's the plan?”

 

Desmond gave her a look that was downright chilling. Lucy had never seen such a flat, cold expression on anyone else before, ever. “Simple: I'm going to get my father out of there. I told you – I'll kill every Templar who gets in my way.”

 

Lucy nodded. “I'm coming with you.”

 

\- - -

**Rome, Italy, September 21 st, 2012**

**\- - -**

 

There was little conversation for the duration of the flight. Everyone was tense. Lucy caught a few hours of sleep that did little to ease the worry gnawing at her. She was familiar with the Rome facility, that well-guarded glass-and-steel monstrosity on the Via Labicana, within walking distance of the Colosseum. Aside from the headquarters in New York, it was one of the largest Abstergo facilities across the globe, and it was located in the heart of Rome, not somewhere out of the way.

 

She couldn't help doubt the feasibility of Desmond's idea of just walking in there to get his father out; it wasn't going to be that easy. They would certainly be expected. In light of recent events, the guards had probably been doubled – and taking Desmond's actions at the _other_ facility into account, those guards would be armed with more than simple batons.

 

She waited until they landed on a small, commercial airport on the outskirts of Rome. Shaun and Rebecca would stay behind with the pilots, making everything ready for the plane to take off again as soon as they had William.

 

Lucy joined Desmond and Ezio outside. A beat-up Volvo stood waiting for them a little to the side of the hangar. Both men were dressed in monotone black, their clothes identical down to the sweaters with the hoods turned up. _Like soldiers going to war_ , Lucy thought, and felt a frisson of excitement mingling with her misgivings.

 

“I want a weapon,” she announced.

 

“You're not going to need one,” Desmond said. “I only need you to show us the way.”

 

“And if something goes wrong?”

 

“Let her have one,” Ezio said, sounding amused.

 

Lucy wasn't going to ask why he was suddenly on her side, in this. She had expected him to protest the most, considering the obvious distrust he displayed toward her. Without a comment, she accepted the hidden blade Desmond pulled from a backpack sitting at his feet, strapping the bracer to her right forearm.

 

“Still know how to use that?” Ezio asked.

 

Lucy adjusted the bracer's straps, lifted her arm, and performed the typical hand motion that released the blade. “It's like riding a bicycle. Once you know how, you never forget.”

 

Ezio smiled at her, with teeth.

 

“Let's move,” Desmond said. “I'm driving. Lucy, in the front with me.”

 

It wasn't until they hit the city proper that Lucy remembered how much she'd hated driving through Rome, even as a passenger. Traffic in Rome approached a constant state of low-grade war between cars, pedestrians and everything that got caught in-between. Worse, the city itself tended to be flooded with tourists even in the middle of winter; it was September now, the nights were still warm, and everyone was outside.

 

Soon enough, Abstergo's Rome facility came into view.

 

“Shit,” Lucy said, and pointed.

 

Newscaster vans were lined up along the rounded plaza in front of the facility. Reporters, with their microphones in hand and their cameramen in tow, were idly wandering amid a small crowd of people gathered around the fountain in the middle of the plaza. A woman stood on the fountain's raised dais, holding up a hand-painted sign: **WE WANT THE TRUTH**.

 

“Don't care,” was Desmond's comment. He parked the Volvo at the curb across from the plaza, leaving the key in the ignition. “We go in through the front doors.”

 

Lucy eyed the line of Abstergo guards, in their familiar uniforms, stationed outside said front doors, shoulder to shoulder, a living shield. There were eight of them, tall, muscular men. Even from this distance, she could see their expressions were less than friendly.

 

“I hope you know what you're doing,” she muttered.

 

Desmond and Ezio walked side by side. Lucy trailed in their wake, glancing to the side as they passed the fountain. Several of the cameras were already turning in their direction, and one of the reporters was heading for them, eagerly brandishing his microphone. Lucy wished she'd thought to ask for a hood of her own, and deliberately turned her face away from the cameras. Not that it would have made the three of them any less conspicuous, but she would have liked the anonymity a hood provided.

 

Desmond walked straight up to the guards. “We're expected. Let us pass.”

 

The man Desmond had addressed gave a barely perceptible nod. The line of black uniforms parted. The large glass doors noiselessly slid apart. Behind them, Lucy heard the reporter's protest as the guards immediately reformed their line and prevented him from following them into the foyer.

 

The glass doors snapped shut behind them with a decisive series of clicks indicating a locking system.

 

The foyer was fairly crowded with people, which didn't come as a surprise. Lucy ignored the gaggle of receptionists at their giant, ultra-modern desk; she counted the uniforms. Three at every door she could see, and there were at least six doors leading off into various sections of the ground floor. Five at the elevators, to their right. Five more, on a walkway straight ahead, overlooking the foyer, armed with automatic weapons.

 

God only knew however many more, on the upper floors.

 

“Mr. Miles,” a voice boomed, causing her to flinch slightly in surprise. “How nice of you to join us. I see you brought a friend.”

 

Lucy recognized the voice, distorted as it was by echo. “Alan Rikkin,” she whispered, stepping closer to Desmond's back. “Hardliner. Pretty high up in the ranks, I believe.”

 

Desmond raised his voice. “Where is my father?”

 

“Alive. For now.” Rikkin's voice held a measure of malicious glee entirely suited to what Lucy knew he looked like: a fat, bald man, usually impeccably dressed in posh suits and polished leather shoes. “Now, be a good boy, Mr. Miles, and surrender peacefully. This does not need to end in violence. Particularly since you've acquiesced to my request and brought back Ms. Stillman.”

 

Guards were approaching them, from behind smoked-glass partition behind the reception desk. The uniformed men spread out, forming a loose semi-circle, but they kept their distance.

 

“We can take them,” Ezio said.

 

“Yep,” Desmond replied.

 

That was all the warning Lucy got.

 

From one second to the next, they were gone from in front of her. Instinctively, Lucy darted to the side, out of the line of fire of the guards on the walkway. She could only hope they were going to consider that any kind of crossfire was likely to get their own colleagues killed.

 

Chaos broke loose in the foyer. Gunshots rang out. Desmond and Ezio were whirling dervishes, weaving through the guards at high speed, hidden blades flashing. A woman, one of the receptionists, screamed, high-pitched and in terror, as a stray gunshot felled a man next to her. Lucy edged forward, glancing up to see the guards on the walkway break up in opposite directions, shouting to each other.

 

And then, a flash of gold. Lucy's breath caught in her throat. Desmond stood, one arm raised above his head, directly under the walkway, hidden blades dripping blood. In his hand, he held the Apple of Eden, and the thing was _glowing_ , sending out waves of light.

 

Rikkin's voice, holding equal measures of disbelief and anger, and no traces of his earlier, smug superiority, screeched through the speakers, “What are you _doing_? Stop! Seize them! Kill them!”

 

Weapons were raised. Lucy, little more than a helpless spectator at this point, eyes wide, watched how muzzles were pressed against temples and triggers were pulled simultaneously. The combined gunshots were loud enough to drown out Rikkin's shouts. As if choreographed, every guard in the foyer fell to the ground, a multitude of dull, terrible thuds and clatters.

 

The silence afterward was deafening.

 

Desmond lowered the Apple. It still glowed in his hand, but not as brightly as before. “I suggest you release my father,” he said, “or I'll kill every single person in this building. Including you.”

 

There was only static over the speakers. Rikkin was probably reeling with shock from what he'd just witnessed.

 

Lucy could relate. She'd experienced the Apple's power on the plane, remembered that horrible feeling of moving at Desmond's command. Only Ezio looked like it didn't bother him in the least, standing over the body of a guard he'd killed the conventional way. In fact, Ezio looked quite pleased.

 

Rikkin's voice came back, fainter than before. Breathless. “I'll hand over your father in exchange for the Apple.”

 

“I'm not here to barter.” Desmond thrust his arm up again.

 

Lucy's gaze was drawn upward, to the ceiling of the foyer. The Apple flashed gold. There were several tons worth of steel, glass, insulation material and electrical wiring between the ground and the first floor, but she still heard the distant crack of simultaneous gunshots, and could imagine the grotesque dance of uniform-clad bodies hitting the floor.

 

She glanced over her shoulder. The guards outside lay on the ground in twisted positions, dead. How? They hadn't been armed! The reporter, microphone on the ground by his feet, stood with his mouth hanging open. Behind them, the crowd from the fountain had dispersed into people running madly for their lives, and behind _them_ , Lucy saw the telltale, candy-color lights of Italian police cars.

 

“Sixth floor,” Rikkin said, even fainter than before.

 

They took an elevator. Consciously, Lucy stood as far away from Desmond as possible. He looked. . .distant, cold, as if it didn't bother him in the slightest that he'd just killed dozens of people. The Apple was dormant in his hand, but a faint glow of gold remained, in Desmond's eyes.

 

Involuntarily, Lucy imaged him sitting on a throne, the Apple in hand, the world at his feet.

 

_On whose bones would your throne be built, Lucy?_

 

God.

 

The sixth floor was entirely devoid of people. Office doors stood open, showing hastily deserted desks and work stations, cups lying on the floor in puddles of coffee, chairs toppled over. As they walked past the shut door to the emergency stairs with its brightly lit, green sign mounted above it, Lucy heard the hasty patter of feet echoing in the stairwell. Rikkin had either given the signal to evacuate the building, or he hadn't been the only one watching the events unfold in the foyer.

 

A guard stepped out of an open door further down the hallway, a young man, sweating profusely, Adam's apple bobbing nervously. “Th-this way, please.”

 

As soon as they walked past him, he sprinted off toward the elevator.

 

“You just put the fear of god in them,” Ezio murmured. “Atta, boy.”

 

Desmond didn't reply. Over his shoulder, Lucy saw William Miles sitting in an office chair in front of a wide desk, bound hand and foot, a guard on each side. The guards were holding guns to William's head.

 

Behind the desk stood Alan Rikkin. The overhead light drew attention to the sweat beading atop his hairless skull, but he looked otherwise calm. Eager, even. After what he'd just witnessed, did the fool still believe he was in a position of power? Lucy had never had much to do with him; she'd reported to Vidic, who in turn reported to Rikkin. Who Rikkin reported to – _if_ he reported to anyone – was unknown among the level of Abstergo employees Lucy had belonged to. The few times Lucy had spoken to Rikkin, he'd struck her as a level-headed, rational person, not an idiot, his tendency to boast aside.

 

Rikkin greeted their entrance with a cool, disdainful smile. “Even if you kill me here, others will hunt you down.”

 

“Then I'll kill them, too.” Desmond stepped forward. Lucy couldn't see his face from her position behind him; she didn't have to: it was enough to see the _guards'_ faces, and how they were lowering their weapons the closer Desmond came. “I have more important things to do than to squabble with the likes of you. The world is going to end, Rikkin.”

 

Rikkin snorted, a sound of contempt. “That nonsense, again.” He picked up a thin folder from the desk, brandishing it. “We've actually gone to the trouble to see if your outlandish claim has any truth to it. Nothing. Solar activity is at normal levels. Who are you trying to fool, Mr. Miles?”

 

Desmond had contacted Abstergo? Lucy wasn't as surprised as she might have been. It made sense, from the point of view of someone who'd stopped caring about the age-old war between Assassins and Templars. Abstergo had resources the Assassins could only dream about.

 

Desmond said, “You can't predict the sun.”

 

“Perhaps not.” Rikkin stepped out from behind the desk, casually. “But I think I can predict what you're planning. Don't think we haven't noticed you people have been all over the planet, poking into old, forgotten places. Once you have all the Pieces of Eden that still remain, what is it going to be, Mr. Miles? The world under Assassin rule?”

 

Ezio sighed. “He's just stalling, wasting air.”

 

“I agree,” William said. “Kill the bastard, and then lets get out of here.”

 

Desmond raised the Apple. The guards, taking one look at it, dropped their guns and fled.

 

“Wait,” Lucy said. She stepped out from behind him and Ezio, ignoring William's angry glower, and addressed Rikkin, “Is it true? If we had gotten another Apple of Eden, what were the plans for it? Would it really have been launched into orbit, along with Eye-Abstergo?”

 

Rikkin measured her coldly. “It seems you've had a change of heart concerning your loyalty, Ms. Stillman. I'm disappointed.”

 

“It is _true_?” Lucy pressed.

 

He eyed her with something akin to amusement as she came closer. “A world under peaceful domination by the Templars, or ruled by the likes of _him_ ,” he jerked his chin at Desmond, “whose actions just now have more than proven the Assassins will never be fit to rule anyone, except through murder and fear. . .”

 

Lucy took another step forward. “I've heard enough.” She looked at Desmond. “Allow me.”

 

Desmond gave her a short nod.

 

She drew her hand back, feeling the familiar sensation of the blade snapping out. Rikkin's mouth fell open, in protest, perhaps to curse her or insult her: Lucy didn't care. She stabbed the blade in between his lips, with as much force as she could muster.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long-ish chapter. Prepare for a minor time-jump in the Masyaf storyline; it's very tempting to write out every single of those 16 years Desmond spent there, but man, I'd be sitting here till doomsday rolls around.
> 
> Also! Both Malik and Maria basically telling Altair where to shove it - even if it happened off-screen - was about as realistic a reaction as I could come up with. By now, people probably think I've secretly joined the Altair Hate Club, but no, I haven't: everything Altair does, in the Masyaf storyline, has a reason. And sometimes, we have to make choices and do things that will make others look at us unkindly ( or in Altair's case, make them wonder if we haven't gone insane ). I've plotted out the entire story; by the end of it, I hope people will understand why he did that he did.
> 
> Finally, before anyone points out the glaring plothole, re: Lucy telling Rebecca she didn't know what exactly the Templars were planning on doing with the Apple of Eden, and her later words to Rikkin about Eye-Abstergo: next chapter. I had to break this up at this point, or it would've turned into a 20k-word monster.


	8. EIGHT

_**Chapter EIGHT** _

 

\- - -

**Italy, September 21 st, 2012**

\- - -

 

William cornered her the second the plane had taken off. “Eye-Abstergo?” he demanded harshly. “And what was that about another Apple?”

 

Lucy eyed him without bothering to hide her distaste. William hadn't even thanked Desmond for the rescue, had only, rather pointedly, talked about how coming to Rome and bringing the Apple of Eden along could potentially have been disastrous for all of them. Although Desmond hadn't outwardly reacted to his father's cold words, Lucy couldn't help feeling sorry for him, as well as a little protective. Maybe it was a result of listening to Desmond's tale and realizing how Altaїr was the _second_ father who had basically abandoned him - she didn't know; neither did she care to examine the feeling too closely.

 

“It's a communications satellite for public use,” Lucy said. She figured that if she just answered William's questions, he was going to leave her alone. “It was supposed to be launched this month, but the schedule was pushed back. I connected the dots, that's all.”

 

“Which means?”

 

“Earlier this year one of Abstergo's satellite prototypes was destroyed at Denver International Airport. You might have read about it in the news – lots of casualties and unanswered questions.” Lucy crossed her arms over her chest, meeting William's gaze. “They never outright told me what exactly happened, but Warren Vidic was in charge of writing up the final report concerning that incident, and he mentioned several times that Abstergo lost an Apple of Eden there. That's why they wanted your son, by the way, to find another Apple through him.”

 

At William's still uncomprehending look, Lucy sighed. “Launching an Apple of Eden into orbit, maybe with some kind of controlling device, would be the fastest way to get them the world domination they're after. I just never connected Eye-Abstergo with the Apple, in _that_ way, until now. ”

 

William narrowed his eyes. “You expect me to believe you that you didn't know?” He leaned against the seat in front of her, looming in the way men sometimes did when they were trying to intimidate someone. “You area Templar, and you're trying to tell me you didn't know something this big?”

 

“I _was_ a Templar,” Lucy pointed out coldly. “I didn't belong to the Inner Sanctum. Abstergo tends to leave its employees in the dark about a lot of things, for security reasons. That's a tactic _you_ should be familiar with.”

 

William's expression slipped: that barb had hit home. Face darkening, he leaned further in toward Lucy, eyes narrowed in anger. “Listen, you -”

 

“ _Bambino_ ,” Ezio drawled, appearing suddenly at William's side, “sit down. Somewhere _else_. Stop bothering the nice lady who played a vital part in your rescue.”

 

Lucy almost laughed. The look on William's face was priceless. He glared at Ezio, obviously seething, but the Italian was just about as impressed by it as Lucy had been; Ezio smiled a smile with edges and jerked his chin at the seats in the front of the plane.

 

William stomped away, throwing a last, hateful look at her. As soon as he was gone, Ezio's smile dropped. “I can't stand that man,” he muttered, a comment Lucy wasn't sure was meant for her ears. After a moment of thoughtfully looking at where William had plunked into a seat, Ezio turned to her. “I can't stand _you_ , either, but between the two of you, you're the lesser evil.”

 

Apparently the comment _had_ been meant for her ears. “Thank you, I guess.”

 

Ezio gave her another of those gentle, edged smiles, but offered no further conversation. Lucy watched him take a seat next to Desmond, who was tapping something on his cellphone screen. She had half a mind to get up and join them, maybe to ask when and where Desmond had learned to control the Apple of Eden to the extent that he could make it kill people that weren't even in his line of sight. Ezio, however, slipped an arm around Desmond's shoulders and pulled him close. They conversed, too softly for her to understand; Desmond tilted the cellphone screen in Ezio's direction to show him something.

 

Ezio shook his head, grinned. Another exchange of too-soft words. He turned in his seat, pulling Desmond against his chest and tucking Desmond's head under his chin.

 

Lucy looked away, feeling an unexpected sting of jealousy. There had never been anyone for her, to hold her like that, or for _her_ to hold. Perhaps that was why she was, to her own irritation, so abnormally interested in their relationship.

 

\- - -

 

A few hours into the long flight back to the United States, Desmond rose, leaving behind a softly snoring Ezio, and joined Lucy in the rear of the plane. It was dark outside the bull's eye windows. Shaun lay stretched out across two seats, his feet hanging into the aisle. Rebecca hadn't moved in hours, probably also asleep.

 

Lucy didn't care what William was doing as long as he did it somewhere far away from her.

 

“Nice kill,” Desmond said softly, in deference to the sleepers. “Want to keep that?”

 

She looked at the hidden blade still strapped to her forearm. She hadn't even thought about the weapon, aside from using a bunch of tissues to clean the blade while they were on their way back to the airport; she hadn't worn one in years but after only a few hours, it already felt like part of her again.

 

She took it off, setting it on the empty seat next to her.

 

“That wasn't an underhanded attempt to recruit you back into our ranks,” Desmond said with a grin. “I respect your choice.”

 

“I suppose William wouldn't like the sound of that.”

 

“He wouldn't.”

 

“And that doesn't bother you?”

 

Desmond took the two seats across from her, as he had before. “It's probably obvious that my father and I aren't exactly close, anymore.”

 

Lucy thought that was an understatement, but she decided not to mention it. His choice of wording, when it came to William, was interesting. As long as she'd been in Desmond's company, he always referred to William as 'father', whereas Altaїr had been 'dad'. She thought back to that conversation in Tallahassee: _Dad's dealing with it._

 

“He's here, isn't he?” Lucy glanced at the lump in one of the pockets of Desmond's sweater. “Altaïr. In this time, I mean.”

 

Desmond looked down at his fingers, folded in his lap. “Yes.”

 

She wasn't going to ask how; after what she'd seen the Apple do today, after everything he'd told her, that was a moot question. Since Ezio's appearance on the plane, Lucy had even sort of expected Altaїr to be around, too. “Why? What does he want here?”

 

Desmond's brows lowered a little, the beginnings of a frown; he wasn't angry or agitated. It looked more like he was trying to remember something. “After the fiasco with Maria and Malik, he became. . .”

 

“Even more of an asshole?” Lucy guessed.

 

“You really don't like him, do you?”

 

It didn't really matter whether or not she liked Altaїr; he had greatly shaped and influenced the Assassin ways, and she could respect that, on a professional level. On a personal level, however, she thought that spending any more time in his presence than was absolutely necessary wasn't precisely healthy, neither for the heart nor for the mind.

 

“I'm just thinking the parallels between him and William are more than a little obvious.” There wasn't really a kinder way to say it. “I'm not a psychologist, but. . .you are aware that you were basically abandoned by _two_ father figures? Not just one?”

 

“I don't think Altaїr intentionally set out to make me emotionally dependent on him. It just happened. I kind of reverted to a toddler mentality, for a while, and I enjoyed it. And by the time I realized it, it'd already backfired on the both of us.” Looking unhappy, Desmond picked at a loose thread on his jeans. “It was my fault, as much as his.”

 

“And yet you still call him 'dad'.”

 

Desmond sucked his lower lip in between his teeth. Pensively, he kept picking at the loose thread. “It was. . . complicated. It still is.”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, December 1195**

\- - -

 

Altaïr's and Maria's son was born in the winter of 1195. Maria called him Darim.

 

Altaїr presented him to the villagers and the Assassins assembled in the courtyard a week after Darim was born. The baby was so swathed in blankets and furs that he resembled a miniature polar bear with a very pink face. Maria stood at Altaïr's side, still looking exhausted from the birth; she'd lain in bed for the last three weeks of the pregnancy, and then in labor for two full days, the midwife from the village and the physicians around her.

 

Desmond waited just until the cheers ebbed away before he discreetly made himself scarce. Darim's wailing had kept him up for most of the night. He already knew Altaїr was going to announce a feast would be held in Masyaf's grand hall, to celebrate Darim's birth; there was no reason for Desmond to stick around and freeze his rear off.

 

Besides, the physicians had ordered him to stay indoors, anyway. Despite his overall robust condition, Desmond had managed to pick up the flu, fever and a bad cough earning him a week in bed. He was still recovering, from that _and_ the horrible teas the physicians had forced upon him. It was bitterly cold outside and he'd had a sleepless night. A few hours of hopefully uninterrupted rest, buried under a heap of warm blankets, sounded like a little piece of heaven.

 

“Desmond, wait.”

 

Or not. Suppressing a sigh, Desmond turned at the bottom of the stairs. Maria, Darim clasped in her arms, was purposefully heading toward him. Altaїr trailed a little behind her, in conversation with one of the advisors from the recently established council that helped oversee Masyaf and the newer Assassin base on the island of Cyprus.

 

For a moment Desmond feared Maria was going to ask him to watch over Darim. Officially, the baby was Desmond's stepbrother, family; he wouldn't deny the request, but he'd really rather not, fatigue urging him toward sleep and not the baby-sized alarm siren Darim could turn into at the drop of a pin.

 

Maria critically eyed him, a smile on her lips. “He kept you awake tonight, didn't he?”

 

“Not at all,” Desmond replied sarcastically. Maria, he'd learned by now, appreciated honesty; he didn't have to take care to spare her 'frail, womanly feelings', as she herself jokingly called it. Desmond slumped a little, offering her a small, more sincere smile. “I'm sorry, but if they ever make gags that fit a baby, I'll be the first to buy one.”

 

“You and me both,” she admitted in a confidential whisper. Darim was gurgling happily, blowing spit bubbles. Maria wiped his chin with a piece of cloth hanging over her shoulder. “I just wanted to ask if you're going to attend the feast tonight.”

 

Desmond's gaze shifted to Altaїr, who was still talking with the advisor. “If I'm awake by then, yes.”

 

“Thank you. I'll try to keep this little monster quiet for a bit.” She gently bounced Darim on her arm, which caused a loud squeal and more spit bubbles. “. . .or maybe I'll just have a try at making a gag myself.”

 

Desmond watched her walk away. She wore gowns now, all the time, instead of the breeches and tunic he was used to seeing her in. It was probably easier to just pull down a gown's collar than to fiddle oneself out of a tunic, every time a certain little monster was hungry. Still, that was the only change about Maria: gown or no gown, she was still the independent, in-your-face woman Desmond had come to appreciate as something close to a friend, over the previous months.

 

At the very least, tonight's feast wouldn't be quite so dull. With Malik gone, Maria was now one of two people in Masyaf Desmond could hold any kind of meaningful, _adult_ conversation with.

 

The other person he could hold that kind of conversation with appeared at his side as Desmond slowly made his way up the stairs. Desmond didn't bother to look what kind of expression Altaïr wore; the hood was up all the time now, even at the most informal of gatherings. It was easier to gauge what Altaїr was thinking or feeling by his tone of voice, these days, than by what was visible of his face.

 

“How are you?” Altaїr asked, neutrally, when they reached the walkway. “No more fever?”

 

“No more fever.” Desmond intentionally didn't roll his eyes when calloused, warm fingers touched his brow and cheeks, seeking to confirm the verity of his claim. “I'm fine, really.”

 

“You're staggering,” Altaїr pointed out, pulling his hand away.

 

“I'm staggering because I'm _tired_. Your screeching bundle of joy kept me up all night.” Desmond did allow himself a glower, at that. “Did I mention the screeching? How can make such a small thing make so much _noise_?”

 

Altaїr took it for the rhetorical question it was. “Get some sleep then, while you can. I think Maria's downstairs, for now. I expect to see you at the feast tonight.” He cleared his throat. “Please.”

 

Desmond watched the tall, imposing figure disappear around the corner at the back of the walkway. As far as conversations went, this one had been downright civil, if measured against a great many others they'd succeeded at turning into days of not exchanging one word at all.

 

That thought followed Desmond all the way into bed, under his comforting layer of blankets. Subtly, and sometimes with all the subtlety of a brick to the head, Altaїr had been trying to make amends. But at the same time, he'd become more distant, emotionally as well as physically.

 

Not so surprising, considering the backlash of 'Mariagate', as Desmond had privately started calling the events of this year's spring.

 

He abandoned that line of thought with a will, nestling deeper into the blankets. Sleep. He needed sleep.

 

Desmond was shaken awake what felt like only minutes later. As if through a fog, he heard his name being called. “'m awake,” he mumbled, and then coughed like he'd never coughed before, his chest burning with each breath. There was a blurry light, outlining two dark shapes bent over him.

 

One of the dark shapes rolled him onto his back, dragging away the warm blankets. Desmond protested the sudden influx of cold air with another round of coughs, shoving and kicking at the hands that were prodding his chest. This time, he could not get his voice to work, and the voices that were talking to _him_ were barely audible over the din of his rattling lungs. He didn't know who was touching him.

 

But there was a way to find out.

 

The switch from normal vision into that strange, color-coded way of seeing came easier now, without the headaches that used to herald it. Desmond had figured it out over the summer, training on the villagers, the Assassins, the visitors and traders that came to Masyaf.

 

Blue for friendlies. Gray for corpses and other, insignificant things. Red for enemies.

 

The larger of the two dark shapes looming over him shone a brilliant gold, and there was only one person Desmond knew had that particular full-body halo, so bright it hurt to look at for very long.

 

He gave up struggling, still coughing. Altaїr was here.

 

The next time Desmond woke, his limbs weighed a thousand pounds. The air smelled strange – herbs, and something bitter. He recognized the scent as one usually lingering elsewhere in the fortress, and took a deep breath, wincing slightly. His chest hurt, but it wasn't the deep-seated pain of before, directly in his lungs; this hurt came from strained muscles and aching ribs.

 

He opened his eyes, recognizing the ceiling as belonging to the physicians' wing. Bakri, wrapped in a thick blanket, sat by the side of the bed Desmond was occupying, sipping tea. He glanced over when Desmond moved, and sat the cup down, leaning in.

 

“Don't try to speak.” Bakri said in a low tone of voice, eyes avid under their bushy brows. “You have a lung infection. You're over the worst of it, but I suspect your throat will be very tender for a while yet. Are you thirsty?”

 

Desmond nodded. He was quite contend to remain silent, his throat feeling rubbed raw from the inside. A lung infection? He thought he'd been over the damn cough. Perhaps that had been a little more serious than initially assumed.

 

Bakri rose and walked away. A cup of steaming tea made its way back to Desmond's bedside, but it wasn't the old physician who carried it. Altaїr ignored the free chair and sat on the edge of the bed. Glancing to the side, Desmond saw Maria standing with Bakri near the door, looking worried. She smiled when she noticed he was looking her way, lifting a hand.

 

Desmond couldn't even move to return the greeting, but he did manage a smile. Altaїr slipped a hand under the back of his neck, lifted him into an elevated position, and held the cup to his lips. It was that same horrible tea again, bitter on the tongue, yet soothing to his raw throat. Desmond took slow, careful swallows until the cup was empty.

 

“How long -” He sounded like a 100-year-old chain-smoker on their last cigarette. Perhaps following Bakri's advice was the better idea.

 

Altaїr set the cup on the floor next to the bed. “Four days.” Still keeping Desmond upright with one arm, he pulled the pillow higher up against the headboard, and let him sink back against it. Desmond expected him to get up and leave, but Altaїr remained. “I checked on you after the feast.”

 

Desmond ducked his head a little. At least he hadn't ruined the feast – it had been in Darim's honor, and Maria's.

 

Two fingers beneath his chin urged him to look up again. Altaїr was leaning toward him, eyes narrowed beneath the hood. The amber irises were captivating, even though Desmond's were nearly the same color; Altaïr's were a tiny bit brighter.

 

And then they were suddenly very much brighter, as though a candle had been lit behind them.

 

“It is called Eagle Vision,” Altaїr said. “I always thought it was hereditary. My father had it, too. You used it on me when I found you, and later again, when Bakri came.”

 

Desmond only remembered using it once. A little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, he nodded and looked away. Were his eyes doing that same light trick, when he used this 'Eagle Vision'? It was actually rather disturbing: Altaїr looked like some kind of feline predator about to launch itself at its prey.

 

Altaїr slowly pulled away. “It took me half a year to master it, when it first came to me. You seem to have learned it on your own, without guidance.”

 

Not that he'd had much of a choice. Desmond glanced up, relieved to see Altaïr's eyes had regained their usual state. He wondered what color he was, to him.

 

“When did you first see like this? No, don't talk. Show me with your fingers.” At Desmond's three fingers and one-shouldered shrug, Altaїr frowned. Just as quickly, his expression cleared. “On the walkway. When the guard carried you back to your room. Back _then_?”

 

Desmond nodded. He had no idea how Altaїr had made that connection, unless he _really_ had eyes on the back of his head, but it was essentially true.

 

“Huh,” Altaїr said, “I always assumed you did that because you wanted attention.”

 

Bedridden or not, Desmond wasn't going to let that one slide. He'd done a few things to gain Altaïr's attention, but collapsing on a walkway because of a raging headache wasn't one of them. He balled his hand into a fist, pushing himself up.

 

Altaїr folded his hand over Desmond's. “I did not come here to pick a fight.”

 

Desmond fell back against the pillow. He yanked his hand out of Altaïr's loose grip, now frustrated that he couldn't verbalize his annoyance. What did Altaїr think he was – some small child, who cried when no one paid him any attention? An ugly suspicion began to form, and deliberately, Desmond let it grow and snowball back and forth: if Altaїr thought that episode on the walkway, years ago, had been a grab for attention. . .

 

Then what about all the other, little things that had meant so much to Desmond, that he'd taken for granted after shedding his initial reservation? He'd sought comfort and Altaїr had given it, freely; but had he, really? Or had he only reacted as the _Assassin_ would, not the father Desmond had come to think Altaїr was, by adapting to the situation?

 

Altaїr was looking at him as one would look at something slightly puzzling, a crease between his brows.

 

 _Probably_.

 

It was a sobering thought, and it explained so much, about them both.

 

\- - -

 

Desmond remained in the physicians' wing for nearly a month. There was, the physicians explained, the danger of permanent damage to his airways if he didn't take it slow. Initially less than pleased with the prospect of having to stay there, Desmond soon discovered he slept much better when Darim wasn't one room over; he liked Darim, he really did, and it was hardly the baby's fault, but after two days of not being yanked out of sleep by shrill screams, Desmond stopped giving the physician's the hairy eyeball.

 

Maria visited, often. Once the worst was over and Desmond wasn't coughing up mouthfuls of phlegm anymore, she even brought Darim along, but at Bakri's advice left him with the physician on duty, away from Desmond's bed.

 

“I'm bored,” she confided, one afternoon when a storm was raging outside, pelting the windows with sleet and snow. “Being the Mentor's wife isn't all that exciting.”

 

She'd spent much of the summer and autumn outside, like Desmond, until her large belly and the onset of early exhaustion drove her to a calmer lifestyle. At her insistence, Desmond had begun learning to ride on horseback; it had less to do with him really _needing_ that particular skill set and more with Maria's want for a companion while she rode into the village and beyond. She was, basically, an outsider. The Assassins may have started to embrace the new values Altaїr had introduced to the brotherhood, but a woman seeing herself as an equal to her husband? A woman who spoke her mind, a woman who argued in public? Unthinkable.

 

“It will be spring soon,” Desmond said. Curiosity was nagging at him; he hadn't seen Altaїr in over a week. “What is he up to? Altaїr, I mean.”

 

Maria shrugged. “Locked himself in his study, at the top of that tower. God only knows what he's doing in there. He won't let me in. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

 

She sounded bitter; she had every right to be bitter. Altaїr and Maria had come to an agreement of sorts that involved pretending to be the married and faithful couple, while privately going separate ways. Desmond suspected that if it hadn't been for Darim, she would have simply packed her few belongings and left Masyaf, in search of a better, brighter future.

 

“Any news from Malik?”

 

Maria shook her head. “I suspect he's very busy.” She gave Desmond a knowing look. “You must miss him very much.”

 

“I spent more time with him than I ever did with Altaїr.” Desmond fidgeted with his blanket. “Yeah, I miss him.”

 

Altaïr's Templar chase in Acre had ultimately resulted in the Levantine Brotherhood gaining a new base of operations on Cyprus. It was one of the first things Desmond had asked Maria about, in hopes of gaining insight into Altaïr's sudden change of character. The answers he'd hoped to find weren't in the tale she told him: liberating Cyprus from Templar rule had been a more or less straightforward affair.

 

Malik had not volunteered to oversee the establishment of the new Assassin base on Cyprus: he simply told Altaїr he was going. It had been a very tense day in the summer, the day Malik left Masyaf on horseback, with a small group of Assassins. Altaїr stood on the palisade wall for hours, watching the group until they were a speck on the horizon.

 

“Perhaps when Darim is older. . .” Maria was staring off into the distance. Her features hardened. “If only I'd known.” She gave herself a little shake. “I'm sorry. I didn't come here to bore you.”

 

“You're not boring me,” Desmond protested. “It's just. . .I don't know what to say.” He'd had a lot of time to think, and for a change actually done it. “I don't know why he did that.”

 

“Well,” Maria rose, “it's done now. I'll make the best of it.” She smiled at him. “Mind if I come back tomorrow?”

 

“Please do.” He meant it.

 

\- - -

 

A week later Desmond was released from the infirmary. Bakri declared him fit to move around, as long as he didn't overdo it, and sent him on his way with a small prayer of thanks to Allah, loud enough for Desmond to hear as he skipped out the door. Toward the end there, especially in the last two days, he hadn't managed to remain docile at all, itching for something to do, even if it was just a stroll through the grand hall.

 

He reveled in his reclaimed freedom to go where he pleased, his first goal being his room for a change of clothes and a thorough washing. Then, to the kitchens, which had finally been relocated to the fortress proper and no longer required a trip across the courtyard. The world outside Masyaf's windows was a winter wonderland, white as far as the eye could see. Thankfully, this winter wasn't so harsh as to require the villagers moving into the fortress again.

 

Washed, clothed, fed and in considerably brighter spirits, Desmond ran across Maria on his way back to his room. She stood in the grand hall, one of the council's advisors at her side. Desmond slowed his step, noting the concerned expressions on both their faces. Maria saw him and waved him over. The advisor excused himself, giving Desmond a paternal pat on the head, and hurried away.

 

“What's going on?”

 

“You need to talk to Altaїr. Perhaps you can get him to see reason.” Maria's expression darkened. She ushered Desmond towards the stairs. “The fool hasn't left that damn study of his in days.”

 

Desmond's good mood evaporated. He remembered Maria telling him Altaїr had been locking himself in the Mentor's study, refusing to see anyone. “What am I supposed to do about that?” It wasn't like Desmond could march in there and _order_ Altaїr outside.

 

“I don't know.” Maria's hand tightened on Desmond's shoulder. “Take that damn Apple away from him. You know more about that thing than I do. Do _something_. I'm at my wit's end, frankly.”

 

She was clearly angry, but there was something else, too. Worry. Was it really that bad? Altaїr had distanced himself from everyone over the course of the summer, and certainly when Malik left. Desmond frowned, realizing he hadn't actually seen Altaїr in two weeks now.

 

One of Maria's handmaidens, a village girl, met them on the walkway, a red-faced, crying Darim in her arms. The girl looked equally unhappy. “I'm sorry, Maria, but he just won't calm down.”

 

Maria sighed.

 

“I'll go by myself,” Desmond said. “It's all right.”

 

“Thank you.” Maria took Darim from the girl's arms. “Tell his father there are people here who need him. Tell him to think about _that_ , instead of that cursed artifact.”

 

Desmond climbed the steep stairwell to the Mentor's study. He noted none of the usual guards were present, except for two stationed at the very first door. Odd. Usually there were two at each of the four doors you had to pass to make it to the top of the tower, where the study was located. That was a serious breach in security, unless Altaїr himself had ordered it.

 

Considering the Apple's usual bright glow when it was activated, that was likely the case. Desmond knew what it was, Maria knew, Malik knew; to the rest of Masyaf's citizens the Apple remained more or less sorcery, something dangerous that had been in Al Mualim's possession and passed into Altaïr's.

 

Desmond winced inwardly. If only they knew.

 

The door to the Mentor's study was shut. Desmond hoped it wasn't locked, too. He wasn't sure he was up to climbing the outside of the tower to one of the large windows at the very top. To his relief, the door swung open when he tried the handle.

 

Desmond had to lift his arm over his eyes, surprised by the wave of light that rushed toward him as soon as he stepped over the threshold. He'd had bad experiences with those light shows. But this was different – there were actual patterns creeping over the floor and the walls. He recognized some of them, DNA strands, molecules, mathematical equations.

 

And there were whispers, noise. That was new, too.

 

He lowered his arm, grabbing for the door to shut it. No one needed to see this. _He_ didn't want to see it. “Altaïr?” Desmond looked around, irritated when another pulse of light sent DNA strands skittering up his legs like inquisitive spiders. He resisted the urge to brush his hands over his breeches. “Hello?”

 

“Cipher. Welcome.”

 

Desmond sucked in a quiet breath. He knew that voice. And when he located its source, he finally saw Altaїr.

 

Minerva's ghostly, unreal form hovered over a slumped figure in the back of the study, next to Altaïr's desk. Altaїr sat cross-legged, one hand on the Apple on the floor in front of him, and Minerva was behind them both, her fingertips hovering scant inches above Altaïr's shoulders, as though she was leaning on him. A chill raked Desmond's flesh as he saw the vacant expression on Altaïr's face. The hood was down. The man's eyes were open but unseeing, empty.

 

“Let him go.”

 

Minerva smiled, an expression that sat oddly on her face. “It is not my doing.” She looked down at Altaïr's bent head with something approaching fondness. “I only provide what he seeks. He has so many questions. . .”

 

Between Minerva and Juno, Minerva was by far the one Desmond preferred. At the very least, she wasn't planning to enslave mankind, a thousand years from now. Still, she was alien. The subtle differences were enough to stand out: the strange eyes, the slightly larger forehead, the greater height. It made looking at her for very long difficult; it was like staring at a slightly askew picture.

 

“Well, then stop answering them!” Desmond approached cautiously. Another pulse of light. What the hell was Altaїr _doing_? “Can't you see it's hurting him?”

 

And it was. Altaїr, from closer up, looked like hell. Beneath the vacant expression he was unshaven, dark bruises under his eyes hinting at a lack of sleep.

 

“I am but a projection,” Minerva said patiently.

 

Desmond chose to ignore her. He needed to make this stop, but how? He hadn't even been able to activate the Apple yet, how was he supposed to _de_ activate it? Kneeling in front of Altaїr, Desmond attempted to pry his hand off the Apple, but Altaïr's grip was iron.

 

“Mankind has always wanted the power,” Minerva said, “but never the knowledge needed to wield it.” She heaved a little sigh. “Even at the end of the forked path, they still squabble, when there are direr things to contemplate. And this one's path is long.”

 

Desmond wasn't in the mood for cryptic proclamations. He abandoned his attempt to pull the Apple away from Altaїr, rose, and drew his arm back. “Sorry, pal.”

 

He punched Altaїr in the face.

 

In the second Desmond's fist impacted with skin, Altaїr let go of the Apple. With an audible, metallic snap, Minerva, the light, the whispering voices disappeared, the Apple rolling forward against Desmond's foot, dormant. Altaïr's hand shot up between them, grabbing a hold of Desmond's tunic. The vacant expression on Altaïr's face was gone, replaced by murderous intent, amber eyes feverish and unfocused. Desmond was yanked forward harshly, and Altaïr's other hand was coming up, hidden blade extended.

 

Desmond threw himself to the side, twisting to avoid ending with that blade in his guts. Altaïr's reactions were off, his stab passing between Desmond's side and arm. But already, Altaїr was compensating, the hand on Desmond's tunic pulling him down and forcing him closer to the ground, and Altaïr's other arm adjusted for a better aim.

 

“No!” Desmond shouted. “Stop!” Altaïr's arm descended. “ _Dad!_ ”

 

The hidden blade's tip crashed against the floor as Altaїr's body jerked violently. Desmond, half-crouched, half-lying over Altaïr's knee, looked up into slowly widening eyes. Altaïr's entire face was going slack with surprise, and the grip on Desmond's tunic was loosening.

 

Frantic, Desmond pushed himself back, landing on his butt, feet kicking to shove himself further away. His elbow connected with the Apple, sending it rolling across the floor until it bumped against a bookshelf.

 

Altaїr stared at him. He stared at the Apple. Finally, his gaze dropped to his left hand, to the tip of the hidden blade buried a good half inch in the marble. Slowly, Altaїr wiggled his arm, freeing the blade and letting it snap back into its sheath. Then he reached up, touching the bruise blossoming at the corner of his mouth and smearing the blood dripping down from his split lip.

 

Desmond slumped to the floor, gasping for air. Adrenaline was still coursing through him, making him feel lightheaded, and fuck, he was trembling all over. Black spots were dancing in front of his eyes.

 

Altaїr had almost killed him. If that blade had hit him, if Altaїr hadn't diverted it at the last moment, Desmond would be dead now, or bleeding out at the very least. No trip to the infirmary, this time, no Bakri berating him. There had been enough force behind the stab to _crack marble_. It would certainly have been enough to crack bone, along with the twenty or so inches of sharp steel piercing through skin and muscle and vital organs.

 

“You really,” Desmond said, still snapping for air, “need to get rid of that thing.”

 

Altaïr's hand wound around his ankle. He dragged Desmond closer, and his other hand grabbed a hold of Desmond's tunic again. Desmond didn't resist, still reeling. Altaїr pulled him up and into his arms, into his lap, and pressed his face against Desmond's chest. There were whispers again, Altaїr saying, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” over and over.

 

Desmond was too rattled to be angry. He put his arms around Altaïr's neck.

 

For how long they remained like this, Desmond didn't know. Altaïr's whispered apologies stopped. The shudders wrecking Altaïr's body faded far slower. Eventually, the tight press of Altaïr's arms lessened, and he pulled away a little. His eyes wouldn't quite meet Desmond's.

 

“What are you doing?” Desmond asked. Anger still wasn't coming to him. “If it had been Darim -”

 

“Don't,” Altaїr cut him off. “Please, just – just don't. The very thought is sickening.” He unfolded his legs, freeing one arm to push himself up. He didn't seem willing to let Desmond go just yet, although he staggered as he stood and leaned heavily against the side of the desk. “I've been trying to find a solution, but everything I do just makes it worse.”

 

“A solution for what?”

 

“This. Everything.”

 

If he was looking for a solution to the problems he had caused himself – the less than ideal situation concerning Maria, and Malik leaving – then he was hardly going to find it in the Apple. Desmond said, “I don't understand.”

 

Altaїr looked past Desmond, at the Apple, and he heaved a shuddering sigh. “It offers so much, just not what I _need_. I thought it was going to be easy.” He smiled wanly. “Find a way to get you here, and the Apple gave me that. Train you, prepare you, so that you might stand a chance, and I know I can do that.” He looked away from the Apple and sighed again. “But what does it matter? You're still going to have to make that awful decision.”

 

Desmond felt another chill. He'd always assumed there was something Altaїr just hadn't been telling him, information he'd been withholding for a later time perhaps, concerning that one, final problem.

 

The arm clasping Desmond to Altaïr's chest tightened its hold. “I am not going to send you to your death.”

 

“You may not have a choice,” Desmond said.

 

Altaïr's eyes darkened. “There is always a choice.”

 

\- - -

 

A month after that near-fatal encounter, Desmond woke in the middle of the night. By now he was almost used to the faint but insistent wail, and he burrowed back into his blankets, waiting for it to stop, for Maria to wake and take care of whatever it was that bothered Darim. But the minutes passed, and the wailing didn't cease. If anything, it became louder and louder.

 

Sleep-drunk, Desmond found his way to the door to Maria's room. By now, she should have woken. He waited for another minute or two, and then knocked softly. When no answer came, Desmond opened the door, peering inside and squinting a little against the flickering light that illuminated the room. Maria kept the fire going through the night, to keep Darim warm. A swift look around showed her empty, unmade bed. Next to it stood Darim's crib, and the baby was kicking and screaming.

 

Desmond trotted over to the crib, wondering where Maria was. It wasn't like her, to leave Darim alone.

 

“Hey, you little snot monster,” Desmond said softly, taking a hold of one tiny, waving fist. Immediately, the wailing stopped. Darim looked at him, his little face red from screaming and crying. “What's wrong, hm?”

 

Darim began to wail again. Desmond lifted him out of the crib and walked up and down the room with him, yawning. Perhaps Maria had only gone to the kitchens, for a late night snack.

 

Perhaps she'd left.

 

But all her things were still here, her sword leaned against the wall next to her bed, her books piled on the small desk by the window, and there was no way she'd leave Darim behind. Desmond rubbed comforting circles over Darim's heaving back, walking up and down the room until he nearly stumbled over an edge of the carpet.

 

He freed one hand, knuckling at his eyes. So tired. At least Darim's wails had stopped. He was still sniffling, though, one hand fisted in Desmond's shirt. Desmond sat down on Maria's bed, holding him in his lap, rocking him. He teetered sideways, almost half-asleep again. Darim was looking up at him, making the occasional gurgling sound that seemed to be baby-speak for contentment, and when Desmond tickled him, he laughed.

 

It was a nice sound. Still, it would be even nicer if Darim fell back asleep so Desmond could go back to sleep, as well.

 

As if on cue, Darim yawned hugely. He wriggled around in Desmond's lap, curling against him, and made a series of smacking sounds, yawning again. Desmond eyed the death grip Darim had on his shirt and groaned under his breath, torn between annoyance and amusement. Carefully so as to not jostle the baby back into wakefulness, he pulled one of the pillows closer, shifting to lean against it.

 

Just for a few minutes. Just until Maria came back from wherever she'd gone. . .

 

He woke to Darim being lifted out of his arms. Grey morning light was creeping in through the windows. Darim made a querulous sound of protest, and Desmond sat up, alarmed and disoriented, but it was Maria who stood at the side of the bed, holding her son. Her hair was open around her shoulders, not the usual braid she wound around her head to keep it out of the way, and she wore only a thin night shirt.

 

Altaїr stood behind her. He was naked to the waist.

 

They stood close enough to the bed for Desmond to smell the scent of musk that clung to both of them. They stood close enough _together_ for him to guess the rest, and he stared up at them, mind blank.

 

“I can't believe you guys,” he said flatly.

 

“It is. . .complicated,” Maria said, looking embarrassed, almost ashamed. Darim was nuzzling at her chest, and she turned away, shushing him.

 

Desmond crawled off Maria's bed and groggily found his way to the door. Altaїr followed him, but he didn't say a word, watching Desmond fall back into his own bed and pull the blanket up to his ears. When no comment came, Desmond looked over to see Altaїr already turning around again and pulling the door shut.

 

He heard Maria's voice through the door, Altaїr answering; he thought about Malik, hundreds of miles away on Cyprus, and how Altaїr had stood on the palisade wall when Malik rode away from Masyaf.

 

Complicated, indeed.

 

In the morning, Maria joined him for breakfast in the kitchen. She'd made a carrying bag for Darim, some sort of semi-backpack that allowed her to keep her hands free while Darim got to ride piggyback, which he seemed to enjoy very much. Maria wore breeches and tunic again. She took the seat across from Desmond's.

 

“Look,” she began, “about last night -”

 

“None of my business.”

 

“But -”

 

Desmond put his spoon down. “No explanations, _please_.”

 

Maria looked taken aback. “I was going to apologize.”

 

“For what? And why to _me_?” Desmond scrubbed both hands over his face. “I'm not angry, or anything, just. . .”

 

“Disappointed?”

 

He thought about it. “No.”

 

“But?”

 

“What about Malik?”

 

Maria looked away. “I don't know.” She winced, reaching up to disentangle one of Darim's hands from her hair. “I don't know why. I swore to myself I'd never. . .” She glanced across the table and caught sight of Desmond's pained expression, and nodded. “No explanations.”

 

Desmond picked his spoon back up and resumed eating. The less he thought about it, the better. It really wasn't his business, anyway; neither Altaїr nor Maria owed him any kind of explanations or apologies for what they did, as long as it didn't involve him. Desmond was involved enough, already. He'd never had so much personal upheaval in his entire life as he had here, in Masyaf. Every time things had just begun to settle down, something else happened that threw him for a loop.

 

He needed to learn to not let these events get to him so much, or he would be a nervous wreck by the time Altaїr sent him back into the future.

 

That, or psychotic.

 

\- - -

**North Atlantic Ocean, September 22 nd, 2012**

\- - -

 

“I can't believe she did that.” Lucy rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, flopping against the seat. “This is like soap opera.”

 

“Oh, it got worse.” Desmond grinned, just this side of sadistic. “But if you prefer, I'll skip over the juicy bits.”

 

She sat back up. “Don't you dare.”

 

They would be in the air for at least another five hours. Shaun had woken and was rapidly tapping on his keyboard, pretending he wasn't listening in occasionally. Rebecca didn't even pretend: she'd claimed the seat row in front of Desmond's, her headphones in her lap. And Ezio, in what Lucy by now thought was ritual between them, had squeezed past Desmond after he woke, and sat with his thighs bracketing Desmond's hips, one arm casually settled across Desmond's middle.

 

Only William hadn't moved from his seat.

 

“Yeah,” Rebecca said, “go on. I love juicy bits.”

 

Ezio's hand, resting on Desmond's belly, wandered downward. Rebecca didn't see it, but Lucy, sitting in the row across theirs, did; her eyes widened.

 

“Just wait till we get to _my_ juicy bits,” Ezio said, fingertips playing with the top button of Desmond's jeans.

 

Rebecca craned her head around the seat. “Naughty.”

 

Desmond wrapped a hand around Ezio's wrist. “Not now, honey, I have a headache.” He didn't pull Ezio's hand away from where it was, however, only laced their fingers together. “Anyway, Altaїr finally deemed me old enough to train.”

 

“How old were you?” Lucy asked.

 

“Eight or nine, when we started. Remember I never really knew how old I was, exactly, when I got there.” At her nod, Desmond continued, “Training back then usually began at around the age of six, if you were born into the order, but Altaїr had gone to Cyprus, and afterward, well. . .we were all a little too busy with our 'soap opera'.”

 

Lucy ducked her head. “Sorry. I didn't mean to belittle it or anything.”

 

“It's all right. That's what it was, basically.” Desmond chuckled dryly. “Especially once Malik returned.”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, Summer 1200**

\- - -

 

Altaїr came at him from out of nowhere.

 

One moment, the sky above Desmond was blue: a few picturesque clouds, the bright orb of the sun, a lone bird drifting on the breeze. The next moment, Altaїr hung in the sky directly above him, hidden blade extended, flying toward him like a bird of prey.

 

Time slowed to a crawl.

 

Desmond evaluated his situation in a split second: Masyaf's courtyard around him. The stairs behind him. The guards at the gate, turning, their attention drawn by the unexpected movement. Darim, playing in the shadow of a tree in a corner, Maria sitting on a low bench nearby, holding Sef on her lap. Dusty ground here. Stone plates there.

 

Death above him.

 

He threw himself forward into a roll. Back would only leave him prone on the stairs. He tasted sand, heard the heavy impact of Altaїr's boots on the ground behind him, and rolled all the way to his feet, twisting around his own axis, one foot sliding back, knees bending and dropping down to evade what Desmond knew would come: Altaїr swept his arm in a precise arc, performing the same twisting motion to bring himself around, the hidden blade passing through the air where Desmond's neck had been.

 

Desmond heard the whistle of air parting before steel as the blade passed overhead. Of course, Altaїr's _other_ hand got him: Desmond felt the hard shove between his shoulder blades before he could change position and ended up falling to his elbows, saving himself from another mouthful of sand at the last moment.

 

“Not bad,” Altaїr commented, straightening up. “You're getting better.”

 

Desmond was getting _paranoid_. For over a month now Altaїr had been launching surprise attacks on him, claiming it was to hone Desmond's skill to evade. He even dreamed about Altaїr flying toward him, rolling out of bed to a very hard floor as a result, heart thumping in his throat.

 

Altaїr offered him a hand and pulled him up. “Of course, I'm going slow.”

 

“Thanks,” Desmond said, indignantly. “Can I call a time-out to grow some more?”

 

Altaїr laid his palm flat on the top of Desmond's head and pulled his arm back toward himself. His hand came to rest against his belt, just beneath the bow of his ribs. “You're tall enough.” He flicked his other hand, the hidden blade snapping back into its sheath. “As soon as the blacksmith is finished with your bracer, we'll start on that.”

 

Brushing the sand and dust off his clothes, Desmond felt a coil of excitement in his belly. They had been training with daggers and other short blades since Darim's second birthday. Usually the very young novices began with blunted sticks to avoid injuries, but Altaїr had skipped right past that. Desmond already had the basics down, having gone through training at the Farm; all he needed to learn was to adjust for the difference in height between himself and an opponent, and he had learned _fast._

 

Darim came running up to them, arms thrown wide. “Grrrr!” He launched himself at Desmond, who caught him around the waist and swung him around. “I wanna fight, too!”

 

Desmond plopped him back down on the ground, making sure to check Darim hadn't nicked his dagger again. He carried one now, all the time, and Altaїr's oldest son had developed the irritating habit of trying to steal it. “You'll just end up in the dirt again, squirt.”

 

“I'm not a squirt!” Darim assumed a fighter's stance, bouncing on his feet, his hands balled into fists. He was five years old now, bright and quick. He threw a few punches that were easily deflected. “I'll beat you!”

 

“I'll beat _you_ if you end up with another broken tooth!” Maria called from her seat on the bench.

 

Altaїr stood back to watch, arms crossed over his chest. “Listen to your mother, Darim.”

 

Darim laughed and kept shadow-boxing until Desmond gave in. Soon, Darim would start his own training. He was already copying some of the moves, learning from watching.

 

It was the summer of 1200. Desmond was 11 years old.

 

Halfway through the mock-fight, activity at the fortress gates diverted Desmond's attention enough for Darim to land a blow. With a shriek of delight, Darim danced around him, crowing his victory, and then attempted to tackle Desmond to the ground.

 

Desmond said, “Stop.”

 

Immediately, Darim stopped, arms wound around Desmond's middle. Like all Assassin children, following orders as soon as they were given had been ingrained in him the moment he was old enough to understand the words.

 

“Who is that, Des?”

 

A man on horseback had ridden up to the gate guards, dressed in strange garb. Desmond had never seen such a riot of colors on a single person, and the stranger's skin was light. “I don't know.” Altaїr was already on the way toward the newcomer. “Go to Maria, Darim.”

 

Altaїr and the stranger were talking, and from the way Altaїr's shoulders were tensing, it wasn't about anything good. Yet, the gate guards didn't appear to be worried at all. Desmond moved closer, trying to catch the conversation, but already the stranger was turning his horse around and riding back down the dirt road leading from the fortress to the village at the foot of the mountainside.

 

“Inform the others,” Altaїr was saying to the gate guards. “I want that group here safe and unhindered.”

 

“Visitors?” Desmond inquired when Altaїr strode back into the courtyard.

 

“Malik is on his way,” Altaїr said without breaking stride. “He'll be here soon. The caravan is at the edge of the valley now.”

 

He walked over to Maria, while Desmond remained where he was, flabbergasted. Malik! After five years of absence, Malik was returning to Masyaf! Unease mingled with fierce joy. Had something happened on Cyprus, that Malik would leave the Assassin base he had been overseeing? Altaїr and the council of advisors had received regular reports from the island; Desmond had read them all, and there hadn't been anything in them that hinted at problems.

 

Darim came trotting over, leading Sef by the hand. “Mom says we're to stay with you until they're done.” He looked a little sullen, and added dramatically, “Grown-up talk.”

 

'Grown-up talk' was a pass phrase, for the times when Maria and Altaїr were heading for an argument and didn't want their sons to overhear it.

 

“We'll go inside,” Desmond decided, bending to pick up Sef, who was already sniffling. Sef had been sickly at birth, Maria devoting a lot of time to him, and he didn't like to be parted from her. Patting the toddler's back, Desmond marched toward the fortress. “Come on, we'll see if there's any leftover sweet bread from breakfast.”

 

Darim ran ahead, laughing, arms spread wide as if he was a bird flying up the steps. Even Sef perked up at the mention of the sugary-sweet concoction one of the cooks had come up with last year. It had quickly turned into a favorite dish of the boys, but only Desmond could wheedle it out of the cooks outside of mealtimes.

 

At the door into the fortress, Desmond looked back to Altaїr and Maria. They hadn't moved. It didn't even look as if they were having a conversation at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and chapter 9 will focus almost exclusively on the Masyaf storyline.
> 
> A note on William Miles: I hate that man. There, I said it. In my opinion, he has absolutely no redeeming qualities. And by the time Revelations rolled around and that half-assed ending had taken place, I hated him even more. If anyone's a fan of William and reading this, ~~go see a shrink~~ don't expect me to turn him into ~~Father of the Year~~ a human being.


	9. NINE

_**Chapter NINE** _

 

\- - -

  **Masyaf, Juli 11 th, 1200**

\- - -

 

A feast was held to welcome the travelers. Malik brought with him not only the Assassins from Masyaf who had set out to aid in building up the base on Cyprus, but also members of the city council of Limassol, the city where the new base was located. There was also a handful of Cypriot Assassins, but Desmond, looking out over the grand hall from the walkway, could not tell them apart from the local men.

 

The entire grand hall was filled with Assassin white. Cooks and kitchen helpers from the village were steadily replenishing the food set out on long tables. Here and there, Desmond caught sight of men dressed in colorful garb; these, he guessed, were the members of the Limassol city council. They looked like parrots, compared to the more somber, familiar robes worn by everyone else.

 

Desmond wasn't quite yet ready to join in on the festivities. He was content to observe, for now. Altaїr stood with Maria and the boys near the entrance to the garden, in conversation with a man who didn't seem to belong to either the Limassol city council or the brotherhood. Now and then, Maria would glance up to the walkway, jerking her chin a little as if to say 'come down', but each time Desmond shook his head and smiled, to which she rolled her eyes but smiled as well.

 

Finally, it was Altaїr himself who turned, amber eyes narrowed beneath the hood, and crooked a finger in Desmond's direction.

 

Resolved to his fate, Desmond took his time to join them. He'd hoped to avoid the meet-and-greet that was currently taking place, not out of fear or misgivings, but because he preferred to observe from afar whenever new people came to Masyaf. It gave him a chance to switch to Eagle Vision, without being caught in a press of bodies; twice already he'd let his gaze roam, over an entire hall filled with blue and gray and Altaïr-in-gold.

 

Altaїr snagged him by the arm as soon as he was within reach. “My eldest, Desmond.”

 

The man standing with Maria and Altaїr looked at him curiously. “Are you sure that's not your twin?”

 

This time Desmond didn't have to rely on Apple shenanigans to understand the language the man was speaking: he had learned Greek on Maria's insistence, and although he was a bit rustic, still knew enough to reply, “I hope to grow out of it one day.”

 

Altaїr harrumphed.

 

The man let loose a bellowing laugh. “I would rather hope you grow _into_ it, my boy. The world needs a few more men like your father, here. Ah, but where are my manners? My name is Markos.”

 

“ _The_ Markos?” Desmond turned to Maria for confirmation. She nodded. There had been a Markos when she told him of Cyprus' liberation from Templar rule.

 

“Oh-hoh, I seem to have acquired a reputation.” Markos puffed himself up, theatrically. Darim and Sef giggled, while Maria rolled her eyes again. “A good one, I hope.”

 

“That depends on how much you've had to drink,” a voice announced, sounding amused, “or which tavern wench one is speaking to.”

 

Desmond, aware that the grip Altaїr had on his arm had suddenly tightened, couldn't suppress a wide grin. Only one man he knew could pack that much criticism into a simple sentence and still make it sound semi-civilized, although Markos deflated rather swiftly, with a quiet harrumph of his own.

 

“Malik!” Desmond liberated his arm from Altaïr's grip and launched himself at the black-robed man coming up the stairs. “You're back!”

 

“Oof!” Malik caught him around the middle, laughing. “Careful! You're not five years old anymore.” He set Desmond down on the stairs, reaching up to ruffle his hair as he had done so many times before. But Malik's hand faltered and his smile faded, making way for an intent, almost surprised stare. Malik's gaze flicked from his face to that of Altaїr, standing behind Desmond, and back. “My goodness.”

 

Desmond grinned, self-consciously. “Like I said, I hope to grow out of it one day.” He ignored the flick of fingers against the back of his neck – Altaїr, undoubtedly, taking offense real or pretended – and reached up to take a hold of Malik's hand. “Welcome home.”

 

Malik pulled him close and pressed a kiss to Desmond's brow.

 

Maria stepped up to the two of them. She gave Malik a tentative smile and waited until Desmond made room. Their embrace was shorter; Maria introduced Darim and Sef, who curiously stared up at Malik and then took refuge behind their mother's legs.

 

The greeting between Malik and Altaїr was so formal as to be almost stilted.

 

Desmond watched with something approaching trepidation how they gripped each other's forearm, Altaїr still with his hood up and Malik appearing cooler now, reserved. Markos glanced from one to the other with a carefully neutral expression – Desmond doubted the reason for the cool greeting was known to anyone except those concerned, which meant him, Altaїr, Malik and Maria, but it was hard not to notice how the temperature suddenly seemed to have dropped at least five degrees. Even Darim and Sef looked tense, picking up on the change of atmosphere.

 

As soon as was formally acceptable, Altaїr released Malik and took a step back, head bowed. “Welcome back to Masyaf.”

 

Malik nodded shortly. “Thank you.”

 

Maria to the rescue, before things could turn even more awkward: she slipped her arm around Malik's, drawing him down the stairs. “Come. The tables are laden with good food, and your journey was long. Come, all of you.”

 

Darim and Sef ran ahead. Markos followed in their wake, albeit with a lingering look at Altaїr, who went last, stiff-backed and silent. Only Desmond remained, releasing a breath he hadn't consciously been aware of holding in.

 

\- - -

 

Desmond jolted awake with a start, blinking muzzily and imagining he'd heard faint conversation. He was, quite comfortably, curled up in his chair, and something warm was draped over him. A closer inspection revealed it to be Altaïr's robe. Around Desmond, the grand hall was in shadows. Here and there, torches and candles created warm pockets of light. It was quiet, finally, empty: a stark difference to the lively conversations and the footsteps of dozens of people he had been listening to for hours. A cool breeze drifted in through the open doorway at the back of the hall, and he snuggled more deeply into the warmth provided by the robe.

 

Malik murmured, “Your son is awake.”

 

Desmond rolled his head to the side: the grand hall wasn't as deserted as he'd thought. Malik and Markos were sitting in chairs arranged to either side of the Mentor's seat at the head of the table.

 

Markos, in a tone of voice completely unlike the jovial one he'd spoken in all evening, said, “This is not something a child should hear.”

 

“He's old enough.” That from Altaїr, looking strangely naked without his robe, looking tense, caught – rawer than Desmond had ever seen him before, and Desmond had seen _plenty_ by now. “Continue.”

 

Desmond sat up, knuckling sleep from his eyes. The last thing he remembered was thinking that feasts in Masyaf had a tendency to drag unnecessarily. Maria and the boys had already retired hours ago, and although he'd been tempted to follow, Desmond elected to stay for a bit longer. He wanted to keep an eye on Malik and Altaїr, driven by morbid curiosity.

 

Instead, he had drifted off. There had been nothing to keep an eye _on_ , Malik and Altaїr both pretending the other did not exist.

 

“If you insist.” Clearly, Markos wasn't comfortable with Desmond's presence. Slowly, he went on, “The man is called Temüjin, a Mongol warlord from the Orkhon Valley. He's a butcher. Young, old, armed, unarmed, it makes no difference to him. Some say it will only be a matter of time until he dominates all of Mongolia.”

 

“Meaning an expansion into the east would become a very dangerous undertaking, if not impossible.” Malik held a cup in his sole hand and was thoughtfully looking at its contents, swirling the liquid around gently.

 

Altaïr's baritone, rife with displeasure, rang like a death knell through the otherwise empty hall. “Why am I only hearing of this now, from you? Shayam should have sent word to _me_ , first.”

 

“Temüjin has not made a move past Mongolia's borders yet,” Malik said calmly, “and may not, for many years to come. That danger isn't imminent. And Shayam would rather cut his own throat than offer you help. That is something you _should_ be aware of, already.”

 

Alamut was an Assassin base in Iran, south of the Caspian Sea and to the west of Syria. Desmond was familiar with the name and knew that Alamut was larger than Masyaf, a bustling center of operations that boasted two or three times as many inhabitants than the entirety of Masyaf and its village together.

 

Yet he hadn't been aware of any tension between the leader of Alamut, Shayam, and Altaïr. Assassins from Alamut, whether as message-carriers or on their way to the cities in the west, were not an uncommon sight. Shayam himself had been a guest in Masyaf, a year ago.

 

Altaïr's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Whether or not Shayam _likes_ me has no bearing on the fact that he should not disperse such information only to a select few. This might well concern the entire Levant.”

 

Malik snorted, but only took another sip from his cup, offering no comment. Desmond got the feeling there was more to it than just this Shayam's personal dislike of Altaїr.

 

“At any rate, it is something to consider – the Mongol threat, and Shayam.” Markos stretched, his spine crackling audibly. “For now, I think I shall make use of that splendid guest room I was shown, earlier. I've given you all the information I have. Good night.”

 

He pushed himself out of the chair with some difficulty, and after a small bow to Altaїr and a nod to Malik, padded away, yawning into his long beard.

 

Silence descended like a ton of bricks.

 

Altaїr sat, brooding again, staring at a spot somewhere in the back of the grand hall. Malik, emptying his cup in a single swallow, leaned back in his chair, gaze resting on Altaїr. After a sheer endless minute, during which Desmond slowly sank lower and lower in his seat, in the hopes that he could somehow ooze onto the floor and out of the grand hall without either of them noticing it, Malik set his cup on the table.

 

“You will have to talk to me eventually.” A note of amusement swung in Malik's voice, though he looked deadly serious. “I am still the Mentor's Advisor – unless that position is no longer mine?”

 

Altaїr made a sound somewhere between shunted breath and pained laugh. “Of course it is yours.” The way he dipped his head, Desmond could tell Altaїr was wishing for the concealing shadows his hood usually provided. “Your room has already been aired out, so there is no need for you to sleep in a guest quarter, either, and -”

 

“Altaïr-”

 

“- I've taken the liberty of having the books and maps and other things you brought from Cyprus taken up to the study, so -”

 

“ _Altaïr_.” Malik put his hand on Altaïr's wrist, that little bit of skin left bare between bracer and glove. “Stop.”

 

Were they insane? Desmond tensed where he sat. They were in the middle of the grand hall, where anyone could see – where anyone would notice the slightly inappropriate behavior, the way Altaїr was all but gripping the armrests of his chair and Malik, expression softening, was leaning forward -

 

“Not here,” Malik murmured. He pulled his hand away and rose, standing next to the Mentor's chair. “And not today.”

 

Altaїr said nothing. To Desmond, he looked a hair's breadth away from exploding – or _im_ ploding.

 

“I wanted to hate you,” Malik said, softly enough so his voice didn't carry, “but I can't. After everything you've done, everything you've taken from me, I still can't. That makes me a fool, I suppose.” With a slight shake of the head, Malik retreated. ”Five years and a thousand miles, and it wasn't enough. I wonder if it will ever _be_ enough. I have not forgiven you. Not _yet_.” Malik released a shaky sigh. “But I know I will.”

 

Fairly certain that nothing that was said had been meant for his ears, Desmond didn't dare move until Malik, after a last, lingering glance at Altaїr, turned and walked slowly away. He still couldn't believe Malik had taken the risk – they had been so _careful_ , back then, and for good reason.

 

“My robe,” Altaїr murmured.

 

Mechanically, Desmond rose and carried the robe over to him, then watched silently as Altaїr stood and pulled it on. His mind was blank, mirroring the expression on Altaïr's face, but not for long.

 

Part of him wanted to point out that everything was _still_ Altaïr's fault – wanted to know what the man had been _thinking_ , or if he'd been thinking at all when he brought Maria back from Cyprus and complicated all their lives, and for such selfish reasons.

 

Another part couldn't help feeling a sting of pity, unexpected and unwelcome.

 

Altaïr pulled the hood up, hesitated, and let it settle about his shoulders instead. His chest rose and sank, a slow, careful exhalation. Bit by bit, Altaïr's composure returned, and with it the air of invulnerability he carried like a shield; it was like watching frost spread over a window pane.

 

Altaїr walked away without another word. He wasn't even looking at Desmond, gaze turned inward.

 

 _Back to square one_ , Desmond thought.

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, Juli 19 th, 1200**

\- - -

 

It was Maria who put an end to everything, before it even began.

 

Desmond spent a week reverting to an old behavior he'd thought he no longer needed: he sought refuge in the mountains, keeping as much distance between himself and everyone else as possible.

 

By now he was better at climbing and free-running than he had ever been. It came naturally to him and he excelled at it, scaling up and down spots that would have had him thinking twice about it, before. Much of Novice training was based on building up a flexibility and surety of foot Desmond already possessed, having gone through that kind of training under Malik's tutelage years before it was usually done.

 

Each morning after the basic training, which by now saw him working out alongside the recruits and Novices under the watchful eyes of Dirar and Hatim, the men who had replaced Rauf, he left the fortress and jogged up the mountain path to the steep stone walls that overlooked Masyaf and the village.

 

He did not return until night fell.

 

It wasn't like Desmond was moping, or even working off steam. He simply wanted to be as far away as possible from the epic clusterfuck of emotional anguish and accusations he _knew_ was headed their way. It didn't concern him, but it _did_ ; he didn't want to pick a side, but he knew he _would_ – playing the impartial untouchable only worked up to a certain point, and they were past that. _He_ was past it, and he knew it.

 

He would pick Altaïr's side.

 

Just like Malik had apparently forgiven Altaїr, or was going to, just like Maria had forgiven him, Desmond knew he would, too – already had. Always would. Altaїr had kidnapped him – had gone away and returned – and he was _Dad_. William was _father_. Always would be.

 

He wondered if it was some kind of pheromone Altaїr was putting out. It certainly wasn't Altaïr's way with words, because by now Desmond knew solving problems by talking about them was something Altaїr sucked at, spectacularly. In fact, Altaїr practiced his own special brand of distance; Desmond preferred the physical distance because the emotional one just _wouldn't_ work for him. It worked for Altaїr, though.

 

Whatever it was, it _was_.

 

That didn't mean he wanted to be around when the shit hit the fan.

 

Maria came up the mountain path, toward the end of the week. Desmond experienced a moment of deja vue, watching her and her long strides, clad in breeches, boots and tunic, sword belted at her side and her hand resting on the hilt.

 

She'd never stopped practicing, not even after Darim and Sef were born. There were still muttered comments from the Assassins around the training ring, when Maria joined them, but not as many as there had been the first time she challenged one of the men to a training fight – and won, much to everyone's surprise except Desmond's, who knew about her past.

 

Maria came to a halt at the foot of the stone wall, catching her breath. The midday sun bore down on her; even after all these years she still got sunburns easily, her cheeks, nose and brow red throughout all summers. She shielded her eyes against the brightness.

 

“I quit,” she called up to him.

 

Desmond had taken refuge from the sun under an overhang, twenty feet above the ground. There was a bit of a ledge there, allowing him to sit – not the ledge he'd almost cracked his chin against, all those years ago – and dangle his feet while he ate the lunch he'd packed.

 

Maria's announcement caught him off-guard. “Quit what?”

 

“Come down here, I don't feel like shouting.” Maria pointed to the ground next to her. She held her hands out for his satchel, catching it, and slung it over her shoulder, watching him climb down. As soon as Desmond reached the bottom of the stone wall, she cuffed him on the shoulder. “Not all of us have monkeys somewhere in their ancestry. Have some consideration for your elders, young man.”

 

Desmond grumbled, “Not monkeys, just Altaїr.” He glanced at her hair, at the few gray strands that had begun to show at her temples over the winter. “And you're not old.”

 

Maria laughed under her breath. “I am 39. Where I come from, that is ancient, especially for a woman.” She looked around. “Somehow, I'm not surprised to find you here.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You always come here, when you want to be alone. Most people would simply lock themselves in their rooms, but you come here.” Some of her mirth fading, Maria studied him thoughtfully. It looked like she was about to say more – Desmond braced himself for a comment about predictability – but then she shook her head, chuckled, and said, ”Walk with me.”

 

They headed down the mountain path at a moderate pace. Maria took Desmond's hand. About halfway down, she stopped. Masyaf lay before them, baking under the sun, its banners flapping lazily in the breeze. Further down, the village and the river, a glistening band snaking toward the horizon.

 

Maria said, “Anyway: I quit. I'm done.”

 

The lunch he'd eaten lay like a stone in Desmond's stomach all of a sudden. “What do you mean?”

 

“I always knew Malik would return one day. It was just a matter of time.” She gave him a sidewards glance. “It was I who allowed Altaїr back into my bed, back then. If you want the whole truth, I crawled into his. I should have known better. I _did_ know better. I was deceiving myself.”

 

“Maria. . .”

 

“I know, I know: you don't want to be involved. But, Desmond,” she tightened the hold she had on his hand, “you _are_ involved, whether you like it or not.” Maria looked past him, at the mountains. “No matter how high you climb, you'll still end up coming back down.”

 

He did not want to have this conversation. “Why are we talking about this?”

 

“Because I need to talk to _someone_.”

 

“But. . .”

 

“Who is there, for me to talk to?” Maria asked. “Darim? Sef? Malik? I could talk to Altaїr, but we both know how that would end. So, I'm talking to you. We are friends, are we not?”

 

She was challenging him. Worse, she was challenging his habit of making himself scarce the moment things took a turn toward the uncomfortable. Desmond knew part of it was self-preservation; another part of it, however, was plain and simple cowardice: not involving himself _was_ easier.

 

“Yes,” he finally muttered. “It's just – I don't know what to do.”

 

“What _can_ you do?” She shrugged. “Nothing. Some things cannot be resolved. They can only break.”

 

Upset, Desmond asked, “Are you leaving?”

 

“No. Darim and Sef have a right to their father,” Maria snorted, “even if he's off chasing clouds, most of the time, and there's no telling if some of my old Templar 'friends' aren't still around. I cannot take that risk. And I will not leave them here and go by myself, either.”

 

“Look, maybe. . .I don't know. Malik won't -”

 

“It is not Malik I am worried about,” she interrupted.

 

“He loves you both,” Desmond said, almost meekly.

 

“I know. He said it to me, many times. As if that _excuses_ what he's done.” A moment of silence passed between them. Then Maria said, “I was married once before. In England.” She smirked at his surprised look. “That is something not even Altaїr knows.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“The marriage was annulled. I am not cut out to be someone's pretty, docile wife. It's how I ended up with the Templars, really – I wanted to see more of the world than just an estate, with servants to wait on me hand and foot, fit for nothing more than giving birth to some lord's heir.” Maria looked off into the distance again. “And here I was, for five years, being the very thing that I swore I'd never be, and I brought it on myself. So this isn't _just_ about Malik returning. . . but maybe his return finally opened my eyes.”

 

Desmond felt the beginnings of a headache. He'd spent all day thinking about little else than where to find the next handhold, where to put his feet, how to balance himself. And now, this. “So you want. . . a divorce?”

 

She laughed weakly. “The laws in this country aren't favorable toward women, in that regard. No. What I want is peace of mind, and freedom. And I won't have that, unless something gives way.” She squeezed his hand, her smile becoming more genuine, if a little brittle around the edges. “I am quitting. I am giving way.”

 

“Altaïr isn't going to like that.” Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Altaïr will just have to deal with it.” Maria resumed walking, tugging him along. “I would rather have no husband, than have to deal with one who pines for someone else. Or,” she added, quietly, “one who is never really _there_.”

 

They walked in silence, Desmond mulling over her words, especially that last bit. She was right. Darim came to _him_ with all the problems five-year-old boys had, while Sef was perhaps still too focused on Maria to notice his father's distance.

 

Just before they came within earshot of the gate guards, Maria said, “Thank you. For listening.”

 

“It's not like you gave me much of a choice,” Desmond said, grinning weakly and lifting their still-joined hands. “I hope it'll work out the way you want it to.”

 

“Yes,” Maria said, “me too.”

 

“When will you talk to him?”

 

She took a deep breath. “Tonight.”

 

\- - -

 

The screaming match lasted for hours.

 

It wasn't a screaming match, not really; occasionally, Desmond could hear a raised voice while he paced. Masyaf's walls were thick enough to keep private matters private, once doors and windows were closed, but not if you were actively listening for something.

 

And Desmond _was_ listening. If it hadn't been for Darim and Sef, thankfully oblivious and occupied with a puzzle game the Cypriots had brought along, he would have sneaked into the hallway and made a concentrated effort at eavesdropping, even. Maria had left the boys with him just shortly after the evening meal.

 

Desmond didn't know why he worried, or for whom: if Altaїr had even one honorable bone in his body, he would acquiesce to Maria's request, unorthodox though it may be. It wasn't as if Altaїr himself hadn't aimed for something highly unorthodox, not to mention immoral, all those years ago.

 

“Des,” Darim whined, “I can't figure this out. Help?”

 

He wasn't really in the mood to solve a mosaic puzzle, but he sat down anyway. As long as the boys were occupied with that game, they wouldn't start asking questions – Sef especially, who had a tendency to start the waterworks if parted from Maria for longer than an hour or so, and she had been in Altaïr's room for closer to three hours now.

 

As soon as Desmond took a seat on the floor, Darim leaned into him and whispered, “What are they fighting about?”

 

Damn. Not as oblivious as he'd hoped. “Grown-up stuff.” Desmond arranged the geometrical shapes on the floor. “Don't worry about it.”

 

“I want mommy,” Sef said with a sniffle. “Where's mommy?”

 

Reaching over to pat the toddler's back comfortingly, Desmond pushed the brightly colored puzzle pieces toward Sef in an attempt to distract him. “She'll be back soon, Sef. Just a little while longer.”

 

As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door to his room. Maria walked in, looking pale, but also calm. Satisfied. She caught Sef, who launched himself at her, scattering puzzle pieces everywhere, and lifted him into her arms.

 

Darim rose more slowly. “I'm tired, mom.”

 

“We'll go to bed, now.” Maria held out her hand for him, smiling reassuringly. “Grown-up stuff all done. Say good night to Des, boys.”

 

“Night, Des,” Darim and Sef chorused.

 

“Thanks for watching them,” Maria said, to Desmond.

 

He scooped the puzzle pieces into some sort of order, asking neutrally, “Any luck?”

 

She drew a face. “Somewhat. We're working on it.” At the door, she tilted her head in the direction of Altaïr's room, giving him a meaningful look. “Good night.”

 

Desmond was left staring at his half-open door. Clearly, Maria wanted him to go to Altaїr, but he felt a thread of terror at the idea. What was Desmond supposed to do – offer condolences?

 

He stood in his doorway for a few minutes, listening to Maria and the boys settling down. Sef was laughing. Darim was talking about the damn Greek puzzle. Desmond turned left, until he stood in front of the closed door to Altaïr's room. There was only silence behind it. Silence, and a breeze – Desmond felt it against his naked toes.

 

He knocked softly. No answer.

 

He opened the door.

 

Altaïr's room lay empty and quiet before him. One of the windows was open, which explained the breeze – but there was no sign of Altaїr. Struck by the quite unlikely image of Altaїr throwing himself out of the window in despair, Desmond pulled the door shut and crossed the room. Altaїr wouldn't do that. And even if he did, Desmond was fairly certain he'd land on his feet, like a cat.

 

He looked out of the window, to the walkway between the towers below. No Altaïr-sized stain. Where had he gone? Inspiration struck, and Desmond looked up instead of down, experiencing another feeling of deja vue; when he'd first arrived here, Altaїr had taken him up to one of the towers. It hadn't been from this room, and Desmond was fairly certain it had been another tower, too, but something told him Altaїr was up there.

 

They shared the love for high places.

 

Climbing out the window attracted the notice of the guards patrolling the palisade walls during the night, but Desmond ignored them. They were used to him climbing all over Masyaf, by now, and after a moment of watching him, went on their way. He crossed the walkway to the tower and looked up. Climbing almost sheer walls was still something of a challenge, different from climbing rocks.

 

But if Altaїr had been able to climb these towers at 12 years old, so was he.

 

When Desmond was halfway up the tower, Altaїr leaned over the edge at the top. Judging by the muscle jumping in Altaïr's jaw, visible even from this distance, he wasn't happy to see him – or he wasn't happy to see Desmond attempt to break his 'record'.

 

As soon as he came within reach, Altaїr closed a hard hand around Desmond's arm and pulled him the rest of the way onto the top of the tower. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

 

“I'm almost 12.” Despite the harsh grip on his arm, Desmond leaned over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. “What are you, pissed I can do the same thing you did?”

 

Altaїr let go of him. “I'm not in the mood for company.”

 

“Tough,” Desmond said, and sat down next to him.

 

Up here, the wind was cool. The view made up for it: the valley lay under a truly magnificent sky, indigo and dark pink hues in a soft pattern, shading to violet and black. Desmond was content to sit in silence, aware that Altaїr had all but turned into a statue next to him. If Altaїr didn't want to talk, that was fine – Desmond didn't know what to say to him, anyway.

 

“I didn't think it would hurt this much,” Altaїr murmured.

 

. . . and he certainly didn't know how to respond to _that_.

 

“What, no smart comment?”

 

“No.” Desmond folded his fingers in his lap. “But I do have a question.” It was something that had been on his mind for a while now, on and off. He'd never _truly_ considered it as a viable explanation, but by now it was the last thing that would make any sense. Taking Altaïr's silence as permission, he asked, “Did you ever truly believe this was going to work? Or did the Apple show you Maria, and you married her because you thought she _had_ to be here, so that _I_ would exist, eventually?”

 

“Would that make me more of a monster, in your opinion, or less of one?”

 

Desmond glared at him. From his vantage point, he could see all of Altaïr's face under the hood. “Just answer the goddamn question.”

 

Altaїr looked back at him calmly. “That's how it started, yes.”

 

Desmond had to look away. He had been hoping for a 'no', not this almost careless acknowledgment of truth. But it explained something Desmond had never understood: Altaїr insisting that it was _he_ who had to leave for Acre, to deal with the Templars on Cyprus. Now it was clear why: otherwise, Altaïr might never have met Maria again – the woman who, according to the Apple, was Desmond's ancestor.

 

He'd known Altaїr had the capacity for deception – _every_ Assassin had that, it was as vital a skill as stealth and physical prowess – but this went above and beyond simple manipulation. “Christ.”

 

Altaїr leaned back on his hands. “I was meddling with time. Minerva warned me that changing too much here might inevitably end up changing the future.”

 

“And you couldn't have thought about that _before_ you started all of this?” Desmond dropped his hands into his lap. “You ruined her life.”

 

“I _changed_ her life. Desmond,” Altaїr gripped him by the back of his neck, gently, “by now you should have realized that I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure you'll be successful, in the future. _Whatever_ it takes.”

 

That much was obvious, by now. Still, the lengths Altaїr was willing to go to were astounding. Morosely, Desmond asked, “So, all your bullshit about love and stuff, that was what? Cover-up?”

 

“I do love her,” Altaїr gave him a gentle shake when he snorted. “I do. I respect her. And I love Darim and Sef.” He pulled Desmond closer, ignoring the resistance, and wrapped his arm around Desmond's shoulders. “Don't think I'm not aware of what I've caused. _Everything is permitted_. That means we are also permitted to shoulder the blame and live with the consequences of our actions, and I've done that. _Twice_.”

 

If he was fishing for sympathy, Desmond had none to spare, currently. Angrily, he stared up at those amber eyes. The crux of the matter was, both times Altaїr himself had caused the situations that applied so well to that ironclad tenet of the Creed. Arrogance had been his downfall that first time; what this was, now, Desmond didn't even know. Marrying a woman and having two sons with her, out of a sense of duty toward a future Altaїr himself had once claimed to not care very much about – that was beyond cold. And then there was Malik to consider, too; twice now Altaїr had ripped the rug out right from under him.

 

Altaїr made a soft sound under his breath. With a slow shake of the head, he said, “Only you and Malik.”

 

“Only me and Malik, what?”

 

“Only the two of you can look at me like that, and make me feel like the lowest of the low,” Altaїr explained.

 

Desmond drew a face and looked away. “Yeah, well. If the shoe fits, and all.”

 

“You, too, will one day have to make decisions that aren't socially acceptable, or even _explainable_.” Altaїr squeezed Desmond's shoulder, drawing him yet a few inches closer. “We are killers, Desmond. That in itself already goes against what most people consider acceptable, no matter how just or noble our cause may be.”

 

Desmond wasn't in the mood for a philosophical discussion about socially acceptable behavior. Altaїr was willing him to understand, and he did – but it wasn't easy, and he wasn't entirely sure it was right. _Would_ he one day be able to make decisions like that? Change peoples' lives, just like that? It seemed incomprehensible, blasphemous. “What about Malik?”

 

“Malik will do what he wants to do.” The arm around Desmond's shoulders tightened. “I will accept his decision, whatever it is.”

 

“Does he know? About your reasons for all of this, I mean.”

 

Altaїr nodded. “Yes. That is why he left, five years ago.”

 

“And Maria?”

 

“She knows, now. I told her tonight.”

 

No wonder she had been so pale. No wonder it had taken so long. Desmond's respect for her went up another notch; in her stead, he would have ripped Altaїr's face off, being told something like that, but she'd seemed calm and collected. Vindicated, even, and perhaps Maria had guessed at this, or at least parts of it.

 

He sagged against Altaїr, feeling drained. He'd expected to be angrier – he _was_ angry, but it was an impotent anger, aimless and already fizzling out. Maybe he was even becoming immune to the effects of the right hooks Altaїr kept aiming at him, at all of them, intentionally or not.

 

Maybe that was even a good thing.

 

\- - -

**Tallahassee, United States of America, September 22 nd, 2012**

\- - -

 

“Like hell it is!” Lucy snapped. She'd become progressively more upset while Desmond spoke, and now the dam broke. “You can't just go around and play god with peoples' lives like that.” As soon as she'd uttered the words, she knew she'd walked into a trap – of her own making, no less. Her anger turned inward, toward herself. “Fuck.”

 

Desmond said nothing. He only smiled, serenely, which did little to soothe Lucy's ire. Glancing up from under her lashes, Lucy's mood soured even more at the sight of Ezio's satisfied smirk. Rebecca sat was studying her fingernails, and Shaun had all but buried his face in his laptop screen.

 

“Lesson learned, okay?” Lucy aimed for an offhand tone, but it came out petulant, strained; she took a deep, cleansing breath, rolled her shoulders, and said, “I think I need a break.”

 

“Me too.” Desmond sat up. “I'm hungry.”

 

“We'll be landing soon, anyway.” Rebecca stood and stretched, earphones dangling from her wrist. “Sandwiches sound good?”

 

“Good enough.” Desmond sat up. “Gotta move around a bit, first.”

 

Lucy remained in her seat, still seething under the skin. She caught the water bottle Shaun loped at her, thinking about limbering up a little, herself, but the plane wasn't that large and William was still sitting in the front, silent and motionless. She hoped he had heard her comment about playing god with peoples' lives. Desmond and Ezio were rising from the seats; Ezio put his hands on Desmond's hips, leaned against him and mouthed at Desmond's nape, then steered him into the rear compartment of the plane.

 

Rebecca eyed the reinforced door that fell shut behind Ezio. “Guess they're not that hungry, then.” She disappeared toward the front.

 

“If you think about it, there really is no difference.”Lucy looked up. Shaun had stopped pretending to be glued to the computer screen and sat sideways in his seat, lips pursed. He was looking at her thoughtfully, and continued, “Templars, Assassins. . . not even the means are that much different. Only the goal.”

 

“I said, lesson learned. _Okay_?”

 

“I'm not lecturing you.” Shaun scrubbed a hand through his hair. He took his glasses off and cleaned them on the hem of his sweater vest. “I'm just saying it bears keeping in mind. It also makes me wonder where it all went wrong.”

 

That caught her attention. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, the Templars had to have come from somewhere. Unless you're willing to believe the few historical records that exist about their origins, as well as certain popular conspiracy theories, I can't help but wonder if, once upon a time, there wasn't just a single group that eventually split.” Shaun settled the glasses back on his nose.

 

Lucy thought that highly unlikely. The Assassins stood for freedom at all costs, even if that meant unhinging the order of the world. The Templars desired order, by whatever means necessary. The two groups couldn't have been any _more_ diametrically opposed; they were polar opposites. Either group was potentially devastating to society.

 

Alan Rikkin's cynical words in Italy somehow attached themselves to the tail of that train of thought. A world ruled by Assassins - by the likes of Desmond, individuals armed with pieces of ancient technology – sounded no better than a world under Templar rule. No single person or group should have that kind of power at their fingertips.

 

Lucy asked, “When all this is over, provided we survive and somehow manage to contain and then destroy Juno. . . what is going to happen to the Apple of Eden?”

 

“I don't know,” Shaun admitted. He eyed her speculatively. “What do _you_ think should happen?”

 

“It should be destroyed.” She thought for a moment. “All of it. Every single Piece of Eden should be destroyed.”

 

“Really? And 500, or 2,000, or even just 20 years from now, when another solar flare threatens the planet? What then?”

 

She ground her teeth. “Locked up, then.”

 

“By whom?”

 

Lucy brandished the water bottle. “In about 10 seconds, I'll throw this at your head.”

 

Shaun crossed his arms over his chest, both eyebrows lifted. “No, really, I want to know. Locked up by whom? The government? I may be a conspiracy nut sometimes, but even you have to admit that would be a spectacularly bad idea.”

 

There was no easy answer. Perhaps there wasn't an answer at all. Lucy heaved a disgusted sigh. “I know,” she admitted. “I'm just not comfortable with the idea of anyone having -”

 

The plane's intercom crackled to life. “Landing in fifteen minutes, guys,” one of the pilots announced. “Buckle up.”

 

Shaun started to pack up his laptop. “A discussion for another time, I suppose.”

 

Lucy fastened her seat belt. Rebecca came strolling back from the front of the plane, a stack of cellophane-wrapped sandwiches balanced on one hand, a bottle of juice in the other. She handed one to Shaun and one to Lucy, and held the remaining two sandwiches out to Desmond, who came out of the rear compartment of the plane, Ezio on his heels.

 

“We'll be making a short stop in Tallahassee again,” Ezio said, cellphone in one hand. “The plane needs to refuel, and we're picking up another passenger.”

 

William, silent up to then, turned around in his seat. “Who?”

 

“Dad,” Desmond said, already unwrapping a sandwich.

 

William sat back down without another word. Lucy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the expression on his face. At the same time, she experienced a moment of uneasiness. Even Desmond's continuing descriptions of the events in Masyaf hadn't put Altaїr into a more favorable light; no, Lucy did _not_ like the idea of sitting in the same plane with a man who, one, should have been dead over 800 years ago, and two, was such a manipulative _asshole_. Having to share the same space with William was bad enough, already.

 

She leaned across the aisle. “I guess telling me the rest of the story will have to wait, then?”

 

“There isn't much more to tell.” Desmond took a large bite of sandwich and chewed. “Unless you want an account of the years I spent training 12 hours a day.”

 

“Really? That's it?” She wasn't quite ready to believe that. “How about Malik? Did he and Altaїr ever. . .?”

 

Rebecca chortled. “I thought you didn't like soap operas?”

 

Lucy shrugged. “I just want the whole story.”

 

“It wasn't a soap opera, after that,” Desmond said. He'd lowered the sandwich and was staring at it, brow creased. “No. They never. . . no.”

 

“No?” Lucy took a bite of her own sandwich. “I thought Malik forgave him.”

 

“He did. Malik returned to Masyaf. But if you're asking if they ever got together again, then no.”

 

“So, then -”

 

“Enough,” Ezio said sharply. He slung his arm around Desmond, glowering at Lucy over the top of Desmond's head. “That tale did not end well.”

 

She frowned. “How do _you_ know?”

 

“Not now.” Desmond glanced at her. “Later, okay?”

 

Ezio said, “And might I suggest we do not talk about this when Altaїr is around to hear it?”

 

So there _was_ more to the story, and it was something Desmond didn't seem to be very comfortable with, judging by the dark mood that had overtaken him. Lucy schooled her face into a neutral expression, gave Ezio a short nod, and leaned back in her seat to finish her sandwich.

 

She could wait.

 

The plane swooped lower just as the morning sun broke over the horizon. Tallahassee's skyline came into view and then vanished under them as the plane flew past the coast and angled toward the private airport they had used before. Conversation was sparse; Ezio and Desmond were leaned against one another, Ezio's hand drawing idle circles on Desmond's shoulder. Rebecca donned her headphones. Shaun had stacked three laptop bags on the table in front of him and was hugging them, chin resting atop.

 

William was the first to get up as soon as the seat belt light went off. “I'll drive up to New York.”

 

“That's a long trip.” Desmond hadn't risen yet.

 

“And there are things I must take care of, on the way. You may have your eyes set on the Grand Temple, but I still have an order of Assassins that needs running. It's not like you'll really need me, up there.” With short, jerky motions, William straightened out his jacket. “I'll catch up.”

 

“All right,” Desmond said, agreeably.

 

William was at the hatch before the pilots had even unlocked the door system. Lucy watched him go with mixed feelings. William had already been taken hostage once. Perhaps his age was beginning to hamper him, perhaps he'd been careless, or outnumbered. The 'why' wasn't important. But what if it happened again? They had 4 months to figure out a way to solve their problems, but not if Desmond had to fly back and forth across the planet to rescue other people from the hands of the Templars. With his little demonstration of the Apple of Eden's powers in Italy, he was sure to have painted a target on them, and she _knew_ there would be a concentrated effort now, from the Templars, to either get a hold of the Apple or the man who wielded it – by whatever means necessary.

 

Shaun seemed to harbor similar thoughts. “Are you sure that splitting up is a good idea?”

 

“Want me to _order_ him to stay with us?” Desmond asked.

 

Shaun held up his hands in a sign of surrender. “Point taken.”

 

Lucy eyed the open plane hatch. Bits and pieces of a short conversation drifted in, drowned out by the plane's still-running engines and the clunk of metal against metal as they refueled. One of the pilots had followed in William's wake to oversee the process.

 

Then Altaїr boarded the plane.

 

He was dressed in cargo pants over sneakers, topped with a hooded sweater, all in black. It struck Lucy as odd – white was the color she associated with Altaїr. That first observation was quickly buried under an onslaught of tension freezing her where she sat. Desmond and Ezio were dangerous, anyone with half a brain would notice that, but Altaїr _oozed_ 'predator' and moved like one, with all the deadly grace of a man who'd spent a lifetime hunting other predators.

 

But it wasn't that predatory slink that captivated Lucy's attention and held it.

 

He didn't look a day older than Desmond. His skin was darker, and there was that scar across his mouth, amid a five o'clock beard shadow. His hair was slightly longer than Desmond's, curling just so at his temples and brow.

 

Lucy was overcome by disbelief and wonder. She'd expected him to be _older_. He had gained control of the Levantine order at around the age of 26. Desmond had spent 16 years in Masyaf. Altaїr had to be over 40 now, at the very least, but he looked like Desmond's fucking _twin_ , without a single gray hair or wrinkle.

 

How was this possible?

 

Desmond disentangled himself from Ezio and met Altaїr halfway. They embraced. Lucy noticed Altaїr, like Desmond and Ezio, wore two hidden blades. She also noticed the most obvious difference between them: Altaїr's missing ring finger.

 

But that was it. Aside from a few cosmetic differences, there was literally nothing that indicated Altaїr was older than Desmond.

 

“Don't stare,” Ezio said very softly, sounding amused.

 

It was hard _not_ to. Lucy's mind was whirling with questions.

 

Altaїr let go of Desmond. He and Ezio exchanged cordial nods. Lucy realized Shaun and Rebecca were as tense as she was, and wondered why; Altaїr nodded at them as well. Then he looked at her – and there it was, one more minor, cosmetic difference: his eyes were brighter than Desmond's, bright, alien amber. Was he using Eagle Vision on her?

 

“So you're the Templar,” he said, with a barely-there accent. His voice was a pleasant baritone, just one more thing he and Desmond had in common.

 

“Ex-Templar,” Lucy corrected, automatically. “Lucy Stillman.”

 

“I know.”

 

Altaїr turned away from her and took a seat at one of the tables toward the middle of the plane. Desmond sat down across from him, and Ezio joined them. The pilot came back, glancing over the assembled and giving a satisfied nod, as if he'd been counting heads. The hatch closed, and a few minutes after that the plane rolled forward, destination: New York.

 

Lucy sank lower in her seat. She made the conscious effort to relax, but wasn't quite successful. She wasn't at all interested in the conversation that ensued, two seat rows over, focusing instead on calming down. It did not take her long to determine why she was so rattled.

 

Altaїr had looked at her as though she was _meat_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REWROTE THIS SUCKER LIKE SIX TIMES. 
> 
> /capslock rage
> 
> A note on Maria: her later life in the games, so to speak, bugged the hell out of me. She was this fierce and determined woman who had goals and aims and fought to reach them, and then she married Altair, bore him two sons, and settled down as what basically was a lovestruck housewife. While there's nothing wrong with being a lovestruck housewife, it just never meshed with my perception of the character, which I'm basing on the _games_ , not any of the peripheral materials ( books etc ).
> 
> Another note: those who were hoping for Altair and Malik to get back together, I'm sorry. It just wouldn't work. I can see Malik forgiving Altair, even working together with him again, but I just don't see them going back to the couple they once were. Malik's part isn't over yet, though, although I'm moving the story forward to the Ezio/Desmond part in the next chapter or two.
> 
> Final note: I love Altaïr. Ass or not, I love him.


	10. TEN

_**Chapter TEN** _

 

\- - -

**Teterboro Airport, New Jersey City, United States of America, September 22 nd, 2012**

\- - -

 

The flight from Tallahassee to New York took three hours. Lucy spent them listening in on as much of the conversation between Ezio, Desmond and Altaїr as she could, but her effort was thwarted by almost every other sentence. They spoke in a confusing mix of Italian, English and Arabic, the latter being surprising as she hadn't known Ezio knew that language. Then again, she hadn't guessed Altaїr would be fluent in Italian, either. The gist of the conversation seemed to revolve around their destination, the Grand Temple, located somewhere in the Black Creek region in Upper State New York. There was something about a key, and something else about energy sources needed to power a door; Lucy gave up at that point.

 

When the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, announcing they were going to land in a few minutes, Desmond raised his voice, “All right, here's the plan. We're taking the vans up to Lewis county. In case we are separated, the place we need to go is a little town called Turin.”

 

“Are we expecting trouble?” Rebecca asked.

 

Desmond see-sawed his head back and forth. “Maybe.” He smiled cheekily. “I'm pretty sure offing Rikkin hasn't earned us any favors. The only thing we have going for us, at the moment, is that the Templars don't know where we're headed. Let's keep it that way, hm?”

 

As soon as the Templars knew where they were headed, there was going to be a concentrated effort to wipe them out. Lucy doubted the Inner Sanctum, the Templar elite, was willing to make another attempt at capturing Desmond alive, not after the events in Rome.

 

She chewed her lip. “How many people _do_ know where we are going?”

 

“Just us,” Desmond said, “and William.”

 

“And that place, the Grand Temple. . .it's secure?”

 

“It will be,” Altaїr answered in Desmond's stead.

 

Something about the absolute certainty in his tone of voice rubbed Lucy the wrong way. She wasn't sure if he – if any of them – wasn't underestimating the Templars' capabilities, the lengths they were willing to go to. The Inner Sanctum wouldn't be satisfied with sending a small team, next time; if they found out where the Assassins were going, they would send an entire squad of highly trained and heavily armed specialists. They would send a fucking armada.

 

Desmond, apparently sensing her misgivings, said, “We can talk about the rest on the road. Our main priority right now is to find the entrance to the Grand Temple. Questions?”

 

Lucy had no questions, only worries and doubts, as well as the burning wish that she wasn't going to have to drive all the way through the state of New York in the same car with Altaїr. His very presence made her skin crawl, and she hadn't forgotten the look he'd given her.

 

“Okay.” Desmond donned his seat belt. “Let's do it, then.”

 

They landed on one of the smaller runways at Teterboro Airport, just 12 miles shy of Manhattan. The pilots directed their plane toward an open, steel-gray hangar and opened the hatch before they'd even stopped rolling. Two vans were waiting for them, unmarked as the ones they'd used in Tallahassee, with tinted windows. An Assassin, looking tense with the hood of his jacket down, stood by the vans, eying the airport personnel moving about. Lucy didn't know his name, but she recognized him as one of the men who had dragged her out of the Italian Abstergo research facility. She ignored the unfriendly look he gave her, concentrating instead on helping load their baggage and equipment into the vans.

 

Desmond, two duffel bags in one hand, Shaun staggering in his wake, laden once more with laptop bags and his box full of cables and keyboards, exchanged a clipped greeting with the Assassin. Keys were handed over, and with another suspicious look at Lucy, the Assassin jogged out of the hangar.

 

“Here.” Desmond tossed one set of keys to Ezio. “Lucy, Shaun, with me. The rest, second van.”

 

Lucy sent a small prayer of thanks, to any god who cared, that she wasn't going to have to sit with Altaїr. At the same time, she was mildly amused that he apparently didn't mind Desmond ordering him about; Altaїr had helped load the second van and now slid into the passenger seat without a word.

 

“Lucy, come on.” Desmond slammed their van's rear doors shut behind Shaun. “We have to go.”

 

They drove along the marked lane leading toward the exit of Teterboro Airport and came up to a security checkpoint. The guard there waved them through without bothering to check the papers Desmond held out to him, more interested in the news about a baseball game blaring on a small transistor radio. Within a few minutes, their two-van convoy filed into the heavy traffic of the midday rush hour of New Jersey City.

 

Lucy rolled down the window on her side. It was September, but the weather was nice, warm with a mild breeze. She welcomed this mode of travel, the vibrations of the road beneath the wheels, even the scent of exhaust fumes and the noise of the other cars around them. In the last two weeks, she'd spent more time in air planes and covered more miles than in the previous two _years_ combined.

 

For an hour or so, she let the scenery pass her by, now and then throwing a glance into the side rear-view mirror, to check on the van behind theirs. She couldn't see Rebecca, but Ezio and Altaїr seemed to be engrossed in a lively conversation – or at least, Ezio was, talking animatedly while Altaїr stared straight ahead, arms crossed over his chest.

 

She wondered when Ezio had learned to drive a car, or when Altaїr had learned to sit in one. The person most likely able to answer those questions sat right next to her. Desmond's dark mood had been replaced by his usual mellow one, but now wasn't the time to ply her curiosity to his knowledge, focused as he was on the nightmare that was rush hour traffic, the occasional mutter passing his lips.

 

They'd be out of the heavy traffic soon enough. Lucy let the time pass, counting cars, matching sights to memory, occasionally glancing into the rear of the van, where Shaun had already set up two of his laptops again and was typing furiously, engrossed in his work.

 

And then: “Finally.” Desmond released a loud, long breath, shifting back in his seat and relaxing visibly. They were leaving New Jersey's city limits behind, heading inland. The scent of exhaust fumes was replaced by the milder scent of greenery as less and less tall buildings lined the streets and the scenery began to change from urban to rural. “Okay. If anyone needs a pee break, holler. Otherwise, we're driving till it's dark.”

 

Lucy rolled the window back up halfway, indulging in a slow stretch. Hopefully, wherever they were stopping for a break would include a chance to shower and stretch out on a real bed, if only just for a few hours. She was heartily sick of sleeping on air plane seats, by now.

 

She glanced at Desmond, gauging his mood. “Want to tell me the rest, now?”

 

He slumped in his seat. “I knew it.” He mock-glared at her. “You were just biding your time, weren't you?”

 

“Yep.” Lucy sat sideways, fiddling with the seat belt until she was comfortable. She remembered his initial resistance to telling her more, on the plane, as well as Ezio's warning not to talk about 'this' when Altaїr was around. She wanted to know what 'this' was. “Look, if it's too painful, I understand. You had a life there, a family.” No matter that she privately thought it had been a rather dysfunctional one. “But I'd really like to know how you met Ezio.”

 

That, and why Altaїr was here, in this time. Ezio, she could sort of guess: the way he behaved around Desmond indicated he'd follow him into _hell_ , if he had to. Still, she wanted to know how that had come about, too.

 

Desmond's fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against the steering wheel. “So I can skip the long and boring bit about training and all? Because that's what it was: me training from the ass crack of dawn till nightfall.”

 

“It's your story.” Lucy shrugged, folding her arms over the back of the seat and resting her chin atop. “Tell me what you're comfortable with.”

 

“Oh, go on,” Shaun said, from the back. “We'll be on the road for god knows how many hours, and it will help pass the time. Besides, I will murder both of you if you turn on the radio.”

 

Lucy chuckled. “What's wrong with the radio?”

 

Shaun pushed his glasses up his nose. “Two words: country music.” He sniffed. “And let's not go into that whole bit where the news on the radio, and by extension on TV and in newspapers, is nothing more than a big piece of shit cooked up by media conglomerates -”

 

“All right, all right!” Desmond interrupted. He blew out a breath. “Man.”

 

Shaun winked at Lucy.

 

“I saw that,” Desmond said, glaring at the rear-view mirror. For a few minutes, he fell silent, staring straight ahead. Then, “Altaїr sent me back into my time in 1208. That was the plan at least.”

 

Lucy asked, “Something went wrong?”

 

Desmond laughed hollowly. “You could say that.”

 

\- - -

**Masyaf, April 6 th, 1208**

\- - -

 

The change from desert to cultivated land began gradually, and then happened rapidly: sand and stone and bleached, hard grass gave way to fields guarded by thorny shrubbery and crooked trees. The river, which the travel-weary group of riders had been following homeward, little more than a muddy trickle for miles and miles, turned more lively, meandering between the fields toward the huts of the village that lay peacefully and quiet under the afternoon sun. It was a welcome sight, for riders and horses alike.

 

“Home,” Hamdi said, steering his horse toward the edge of the river. “Allah be praised. Finally.”

 

Desmond couldn't have agreed more. He was parched and he felt dirty, sand, sweat and grit clinging to his skin under his clothes in places he preferred not to think about. The Assassin tunic and robes held off the worst of the sun, but he still felt as though he'd been baked alive, especially during that last leg of their return journey.

 

Following Hamdi's example, he gave his mare the heels, steering her to the river so she could drink her fill. He dismounted and knelt at the edge of the water, cupping handfuls of it and throwing it in his face. To the left and right of him, other Assassins followed suit, leading their horses to the water. A few children, who had been playing in one of the fields across the river and watched their arrival avidly, ran away toward the village, shouting and laughing.

 

Hamdi, emptying the remaining drops from his water canteen over his head, joined Desmond. He was a young man, with a wide smile and a wild growth of black hair, brown eyes. “So, what do you think? When will we be sent out next?”

 

The Third Crusade had ended in 1204, on a less than favorable note for the crusaders. Richard the Lionheart had left the Holy Land, but many of his soldiers had not. As a result, marauding bands of them had been plaguing the caravan and trade routes for years now. Damascus, Jerusalem and Acre were no easy targets, and with the recovering of the Holy Land's population, many of the smaller cities managed to drive them of as well. So these dogs had turned away from the cities by the coast, turned their attention to the trade routes, the smaller settlements, and come as far as the edges of the Orontes Valley.

 

Desmond and the Assassins accompanying him were returning from a sting operation to take out a group of these bandits. They had been successful.

 

“I don't know.” Desmond wiped water off his face, blinking through the sting of sweat in his eyes, and rose. He looked left and right, counting heads: six Assassins and six horses, not counting himself, were indulging in the first bit of real water they'd seen in days. Gladness overcame him at the sight; he had set out with six, a week ago, and he was bringing six home. He raised his voice, “Let's ride. Home, real food, and real beds for us tonight.”

 

The men cheered. Even Mihran, whose left arm was in a sling after an unfortunate encounter with an arrow, was grinning.

 

They crossed the river and rode into the village. The villagers who were out and about greeted them, smiles on their faces. Masyaf relied on the trade routes to stay open, on the caravans to reach them, for goods they could not grow themselves, materials they could not harvest from the mountains, the spare growth of trees in this part of the valley. Bandits were also a danger to messengers and Master Assassins en route to Alamut or the cities in the west.

 

This wasn't the first time Desmond had led a 'task force', and it certainly wouldn't be the last. By now, he was rather good at hunting down rabid dogs.

 

For now, however, the danger had been dealt with. The last bit of tension drained from Desmond as he rode through Masyaf's gate. Stable boys were already waiting in the courtyard to take the horses. Hamdi's wife, Aisha, ran up to them and threw her arms around her husband's neck, peppering his face with kisses.

 

“I'll see you later,” Hamdi said with a grin.

 

“Much later,” Aisha said, cheekily. “I have not seen my man in a week. I must greet him properly.”

 

Laughing to himself and watching them walk off arm in arm, Desmond handed his mare's reigns over to a waiting stable boy and trudged up the wide stairs. He was longing for a bath, clean clothes, and a large meal, sick of the dried meat, dried fruit and stale bread that made up the travel rations. There had been nothing worth stealing from the bandits they'd hunted down, no food, only a few swords, shields and other metal-made items that would go to the blacksmiths in the village, to be melted down for other purposes.

 

As soon as he stepped into the grand hall, he caught sight of a person sitting on the steps leading up to the garden entrance. Desmond held his arms open. “Hey.”

 

Darim sprang up from his seat and ran up to him, grinning fiercely. “You're back!”

 

Desmond caught his younger stepbrother around the middle and swung him around. Darim was 13 now, tall for his age and in that awkward stage of growth where boys seemed to be made out of elbows and knees and nothing more.

 

“How was it? How many bandits did you kill?” Darim asked as soon as Desmond sat him back down on his feet. “You must tell me all about it!”

 

Wearily, Desmond scrubbed a hand over Darim's short-cropped hair. “Later. I need a bath, and food.” He looked around. “Where is Sef?”

 

Darim shrugged; he was also in that stage where younger siblings were a nuisance and 'uncool'. “Reading, as always. Probably in one of the libraries.” He took Desmond's hands, pulling him toward the stairs. “Come! You can bathe _and_ tell me all about it.”

 

Desmond gave in. Better to satisfy Darim's curiosity now, before the boy ended up following him around for the rest of the day. It had already been a struggle to convince Darim that no, he couldn't accompany Desmond on the hunt for those bandits, no matter how well he was doing in his training and how good he was at aiming a crossbow.

 

They walked to the communal bathing chamber on the second floor. Desmond sent Darim to his room to fetch him a change of clothes, and set about peeling off the robes, one layer after the other. It was a relief to take off the leather boots and wiggle his toes against the marble floor; comfortable as the boots were, Desmond had only taken them off once or twice during the week-long mission, and the leather had left red imprints on his calves and feet, despite the bandages that were commonly used to protect against chaffing.

 

He took off his belt, gloves and bracers, and unhooked the leather chest straps that held the back sheath, piling everything onto a table for later inspection and cleaning. The robes, tunic and breeches needed to be washed. Desmond shoved them into a waiting bucket, along with the red sash, and was unwinding the long, soft piece of fabric that served as a loincloth, when the door opened.

 

He expected it to be Darim. “Did you find every – oh. Hi.”

 

Altaїr stepped inside and pulled the door shut. Desmond caught a glimpse of Darim, hovering just outside the door, mutiny written all across his face. According to the bundle of clothes hanging from Altaїr's arm, Altaїr must have intercepted Darim on the way back to the bathing chamber.

 

“Welcome home,” Altaїr said lightly, dropping the clothes next to the pile of weapons and leather. “You were successful.”

 

It was not a question. Desmond's success rate in missions was astronomical. It was a fact, not something he boasted with, though lately some of the older Assassins had begun teasing him about his 'obvious plan' to emulate Altaїr in becoming a Master Assassin at the earliest age possible.

 

Gaining that title meant little to Desmond. He had fought long and hard to be allowed to undertake missions in the first place, a privilege the other recruits and Novices didn't have to beg for, as it was part of becoming an Assassin. Altaїr had been strictly against letting him out of sight without supervision, arguing that one stray arrow, one unlucky fall, one _lucky_ strike on an enemy's part would be enough to put an end to everything.

 

Only by Malik's intervention had Desmond finally been given his first missions. Everyone needed to go up, sooner or later, against enemies who really intended to kill you. What use was all the training in the world, if it wasn't put to the test? And besides, had Altaїr himself not outright ignored caution and wisdom in his younger years, throwing himself headlong into battle like a crazed desert spirit?

 

Altaїr had given in less than gracefully, at that. He'd retaliated silently, sending Desmond on missions that kept him somewhat close to Masyaf.

 

“Only one wounded. Mihran took an arrow to the arm.” Desmond finished undressing, dropping the loincloth into the bucket with the rest of his clothes. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

 

“No.” Altaїr walked a slow circle around Desmond.

 

He held still for the 'inspection'. Really, it was kind of cute. Altaїr may have given in to letting Desmond out of his sight, but he insisted on making personally sure that each and every scratch Desmond sustained was really just a scratch, and not the herald of slow, painful death.

 

Altaїr finished his circle. Face to face with Desmond, he flicked a finger against a rather large and obvious patch of crusted dirt. “You stink.”

 

“I was about to bathe,” Desmond pointed out, “before I was so rudely interrupted.” They were of the same height now. No matter how often he looked straight into Altaїr's eyes, instead of having to crane his head back, Desmond enjoyed it each and every time. Newcomers to Masyaf no longer commented on the uncanny likeness between a father and a son, but mistook them for twins or, at the very least, brothers. “So unless you want some water on your fancy robe, give me some space.”

 

Altaїr scoffed. “I've had far worse on me than water.” But he did take a seat on one of the low benches that lined the walls, conveniently out of splash range.

 

Sometimes now, when Desmond was finished with the day's chores and the training, or when he returned from a mission, Altaїr sat with him. They discussed politics, the intricate ways Masyaf was run, future plans; for most of his life here, Desmond had been kept out of the 'paperwork', so to speak, but he had learned it was something he actually enjoyed and found interesting, if it was applied to him in small doses.

 

Today, though, Altaїr sat quietly.

 

Desmond chose the nearest, wooden tub, submerging himself in the water. Thanks to a series of complicated pipes, fresh water from the river was brought directly to this room, allowing the tubs to be filled without having to resort to carrying heavy buckets up to the second floor. In the winter, the water could be heated; in the summers, the water was cool, a welcome relief to sun-parched skin. A bathing stool stood next to each tub, offering 'soap' in shallow bowls: a mixture of fine-grained sand and olive oil, abrasive enough to get rid of an entire layer of skin, if one wasn't careful.

 

“Are you sure nothing's wrong?” Desmond began to scrub himself down. “You're so quiet.”

 

Altaїr raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever known me to be chatty?”

 

Given the right occasion and cause, Altaїr could talk someone's ear off, and then some. Desmond had witnessed that often enough now, when he felt particularly masochistic and sat in on one of the endless council meetings that sometimes took up an entire afternoon of Altaïr's time.

 

However, Altaïr's self-chosen 'exile', his continuing obsession with the Apple of Eden, continually isolated him, from friends and family alike. Desmond had given up on trying to coax him out of that isolation years ago. Everyone had. The Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood, they said, was a quiet man who valued his privacy. “No. Not really.”

 

Altaїr's smile turned wistful. “I remember bringing you here and helping you bathe. You were so tiny that I feared you were going to drown, if I didn't keep an eye on you.” He tipped his head back against the wall, watching Desmond through half-open eyes. “And now you're almost too tall for that tub.”

 

Sand and oil forgotten in his cupped palm, Desmond wondered what had brought on this unexpecte trip down memory lane. They rarely spoke about the past these days, by mutual, unvoiced agreement. It was better for all concerned: bringing up the old 'stories' again and again aided no one, not when it had taken so long for the wounds they'd all suffered to scab over and heal.

 

Altaїr, Maria and Malik lived in a state of peaceful co-existence now, the lines between them clearly drawn. Darim and Sef were growing up in the belief that their father was simply possessed of a distant personality, too occupied with running the order to spend much time with them. They knew nothing about the exact circumstances, that complicated net of relationships that had unraveled years ago and never been repaired.

 

“I will miss you when you are gone,” Altaїr said. He inclined his head. “It is time.”

 

Desmond felt as though the bottom of his stomach was dropping out. He knew exactly what Altaїr was talking about. “You are sending me back. When?”

 

“Soon.” Altaїr rubbed his palms along his thighs, fingers flexing, a rare, physical manifestation of unease. “Tonight.”

 

“ _Tonight_?”

 

“I have nothing more to teach you. And what I hoped to give you. . .” Altaїr looked to the side, brows creasing, “That still eludes me. It may not be mine to give. Each day longer that I keep you here is just a delay of the inevitable.”

 

Part of Altaïr's obsession with the Apple stemmed from his attempts to find a solution for the choice Desmond still would have to make, 800 years into the future. God, Desmond hadn't thought about that in years, his training, his growth, the life here, _his_ life here, all firmly settling him in the _now_.

 

Tonight, it would be over. Tonight, Altaїr would use the Apple of Eden and send him back to his own time.

 

He had not thought about _that_ in a very long time, either.

 

Desmond reached for the edges of the tub, holding on to them. He needed to breathe slowly and deeply for a minute, to work through the feeling of a world falling apart around him. He'd spent weeks, months, wishing all of this was nothing more than a dream he could wake up from, back when he first arrived in Masyaf. Now that the time to wake up was imminent – _tonight_ – he almost resented the very thought.

 

“I am sorry. For the second time now, I am uprooting you.” Altaїr looked unhappy. More than that, he looked ashamed. “And it may all have been for nothing.”

 

The feeling passed. Desmond experienced a moment of remarkable calmness and clarity that allowed him to look beyond the shock. It hadn't all been for nothing. At the very least, he wasn't walking into his future blind and unaware of what was waiting for him, at the end of the road. He _knew_. That was more than most people could hope for, a unique gift he had been given.

 

He shook his head. “It wasn't for nothing.”

 

Altaïr's lips twitched into a small smile.

 

“Do I get to say good bye?”

 

“Of course.” Altaїr dipped his head, the hood hiding his face. “Officially, I am sending you to Alamut, to carry a message to their Mentor. You will,” he took a soft breath, releasing it slowly, “die on the way there.”

 

Desmond winced. Darim and Sef – Darim especially – would not take well to those news. But a death was still better than a disappearance; a death was final, something concrete that could be dealt with, worked through and eventually laid to rest.

 

“Malik and Maria. . .”

 

“They know.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I am sorry,” Altaїr repeated. He started to say more, but then rose abruptly, turning to the door. His voice sounded thick. “I will see you later.”

 

The door opened and shut. Desmond was left staring at the bench where Altaїr had been sitting. His heart was aching. Tonight, he would leave all of this behind, forever. In his time, in the future, Altaїr was dead. So were Maria, and Malik, and the boys. Everyone Desmond knew here, from the villagers to the Assassins, the merchants who visited Masyaf, the messengers from Acre, Jerusalem and Damascus – they were all gone.

 

He had always known he was living on borrowed time, here. The knowledge that one day, Altaїr would send him back – it had always lurked in the back of Desmond's mind, but it had been so _easy_ to forget about it. To pretend. . . no. He hadn't pretended. He had lived here; this was his home.

 

Now it was time to say farewell.

 

Mechanically, Desmond finished bathing, torn between excitement and sadness. He dressed slowly and gathered up his weapons and leathers, leaving the soiled robes to soak in the bucket. Tonight. It made sense that it would be in the night, when messengers usually rode out of Masyaf, to cover as many miles as possible while it was cool.

 

Desmond leaned against the door. The calm acceptance was wavering, crumbling under the knowledge that everything he had taken for granted, everything he knew, would be gone tonight. His eyes were burning, and he gave in to the tears that came, without shame.

 

\- - -

 

In the evening, he sat with Darim and Sef. Darim plied him with questions about his recent mission, and even Sef, who so far had shown little interest in taking up the training his brother was fully invested in, partook in the lively conversation that ensued. Desmond watched them while they ate and squabbled, as brothers were likely to; then he told them about his upcoming 'errant'.

 

Darim dropped his flat bread and protested loudly, “But you only just came back!”

 

“And I must leave again, tonight.” Desmond shrugged. He hated lying to the both of them, but it had to be done. Neither Darim nor Sef knew anything about the Apple of Eden, only that it existed and that it was dangerous. They would not understand, even if Desmond were to sit down and tell them everything, from his unexpected transportation to Masyaf to the reasons behind it. “It's an important message. It cannot wait.”

 

“Alamut is far away,” Sef said. He had recently taken a liking to maps, studying them with the same fervent interest that Darim 'studied' crossbows. Maria had said years ago that her youngest son would one day become a scholar, not a fighter; Desmond agreed with her assessment. Sef had the calm patience for it, which Darim was lacking. “When will you return?”

 

 _Never_. Desmond laced his fingers together. “I don't know.”

 

“I want to come with you,” Darim muttered. He crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his chin out. “I'm old enough! I can ride!”

 

Desmond cuffed him lightly in the shoulder. “You can come with me. . .”

 

Darim's eyes widened. “Really?”

 

“. . .but only if you explain to your mother why you vanished in the middle of the night, when we return from Alamut.”

 

Darim's face fell. In fact, he paled just a little. Sef giggled. Darim threw an olive at him. A playful boxing match ensued, which Desmond broke up when it threatened to send the dishes and bowls of their meal into every corner of the room, and soon the conversation returned to more civil matters. He saw the boys to bed – they had their own room now, next to Maria's – and cleaned up the remains of the meal.

 

Then he needed to stand still for a while, again.

 

He had just spoken to Darim and Sef for the last time in his life. Fighting off another surge of emotions, Desmond left his room and stood in the hallway, listening to them settling down for the night. One day, he hoped, they would forgive him for 'dying'.

 

Barefoot, he walked along the walkway, up and down the stairs. He wandered through the libraries, the infirmary, the kitchens; he descended into the bowels of Masyaf, where Altaїr had begun constructing a private library; he walked the length of the courtyard and climbed the palisade walls and gazed out over the village, lying below Masyaf in the encroaching gloom of the night. He stood there for an hour, burning the sight into memory, until the sky was dark. Then, resolved, he returned inside.

 

Maria was waiting for him, by the stairs. She leaned against the railing, a small book in one hand, a slip of paper marking where she had left off, and was staring at the ground before her feet. She was old now – _older_ , Desmond corrected himself, her brown hair streaked generously with gray, the skin around her eyes marked with crow's feet, her brow and throat lined. The line of her jaw was less firm now than it had been, when he first met her.

 

Clad in breeches, boots and tunic, the sight of her was something Desmond considered a part of Masyaf as much as the stones the fortress was built from.

 

She looked up as he approached. Wordless, she held out a hand. Her grip was firm and strong. Only her eyes betrayed her emotions, subtly red-rimmed. At his pointed look, Maria scoffed. “I am not allowed to be sad?” She seemed to be wavering between anger and sadness, her face somehow expressing both at the same time. “I've known you since you were little. I love you like a son. And tomorrow, you will be gone forever.”

 

Desmond pulled her into an embrace. God, he was going to miss her. “I'm sorry.”

 

Maria laughed into his tunic. She pulled back, holding him at arm's length, and after a surreptitious glance around to make sure they weren't overheard, said, “I've half a mind to steal that damn Apple, just so you have to stay here.” She swallowed, her throat clicking audibly. Her cheeks were wet. She dredged up a smile. “Forgive this old woman her foolish ideas. Come. There is someone else who wants to say farewell.”

 

“You're not old,” he protested.

 

She smirked. “I am 47. Where I come from, that is ancient, especially for a woman.”

 

She led him to Altaïr's room. Altaїr wasn't there, but Malik was. He sat in a chair by the windows, holding a cloth-covered parcel in his lap. Upon their entrance, he rose.

 

“Altaïr gave me this, to give to you.” He nodded at the parcel. “Your things.”

 

His things? Desmond eyed the parcel with curiosity. He had very little in the way of personal possessions. A few books, a few knickknacks given to him by visitors, his first hidden blade, the bracer too small now to fit and the metal long since melted down again, for the blade he currently used. A luxury, he knew – most Assassins were given a hidden blade only at the end of their Novice years, when the training was done. Desmond had been training with one since his 11th year.

 

Malik set the parcel down on the chair. He, too, was older now, graying at the temples, his goatee sprinkled with silver, the lines of his face deeper, sterner. He had lost none of the fire that had made him so unpredictable to Desmond, back when it all began. Malik held open his one arm, pulling him into a firm hug. He pressed a kiss to Desmond's brow, the way he had when he returned from Cyprus, all those years ago.

 

“You're not making this easy for me,” Desmond complained halfheartedly, when Malik let him go. “I'm going to miss you so much. Both of you.” He kept one arm around Malik and reached for Maria's hand again. “I can't thank you enough, for – for everything. God. That sounds so lame. I -”

 

Maria squeezed his hand. “Now you're making it hard for _us_.” Her cheeks were wet once more. She reached up and wiped the tears away. “Take heart. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

 

“A _very_ long journey.” Malik's eyes were suspiciously bright. “And pray the Apple does not send you back as a little boy, again. That would be so very unfortunate. I pity the fools who would have to deal with you, in the future, if that happened.”

 

Desmond laughed. “Yeah, that would be. . .” He trailed off. “Come here, both of you.”

 

Three people sharing an embrace was a little awkward, but they managed. Maria pulled away first. She grabbed Desmond by the back of the neck, pulled him down, and kissed his cheek.

 

“All the best luck,” she whispered. “I cannot – I can't stay and watch this. I wanted to, but I cannot. Knowing you'll be lost to us forever is hard enough. I cannot watch it happen.”

 

“I understand.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Farewell.”

 

She stroked his cheek. Fresh tears were welling up in her eyes, and she turned away, lifting a hand to her face as she hurried out of the room, the door falling shut behind her.

 

Malik took Desmond by the arm and pulled him to the window. “I will stay. I was there when you arrived, too.” He picked up the parcel, holding it out. “Here. Better to look at everything now, in case we have to make any last-minute changes.”

 

Desmond welcomed the distraction, upset as he was. He was losing a family, right now. He cared about them – he loved them, all of them – and he was losing them. Forever. With fingers that didn't quite want to obey him, he nestled at the string tied around the parcel and unwrapped the cloth.

 

The parcel's contents confused him. There were clothes, strange-looking ones. A white, soft jacket, and a pair of pants made of a stiffer material lay at the top, over a pair of shoes.

 

He blinked. He recognized these things. “My clothes!” He carried the parcel to Altaïr's bed, setting each item out separately. “How. . .?”

 

Malik sat on the edge of the bed. “You did not arrive here naked.”

 

Desmond could scarcely contain his surprise. He'd always assumed traveling through time via the Apple had somehow evaporated his clothes, along with his backpack and the few odds and ends he'd carried in it, that night in New York. Neither Altaїr nor Malik had ever mentioned anything in regards to them, and he'd never thought to ask.

 

But it was all there - even his messenger bag, folded into a neat square. Desmond fingered his cellphone, its battery long since depleted. He picked up a half-empty pack of chewing gum, the contents brittle with age, and leafed through the small notebook he'd kept as a bartender, a running tally of tips, one page for each night he spent behind the bar.

 

“Now, before you leave,” Malik picked through the scattered items, turning over the pair of blue jeans, “tell me what this is called.” He pointed at the fly.

 

Desmond broke out into a bout of helpless laughter. He could just imagine it, Altaїr and Malik bent over everything that was 'normal' in the future, wondering at the functions and mechanisms. “It's called a zipper.”

 

“Appropriate.” Malik twitched a grin. “It amused us for days. The sound, especially.”

 

“But why did you keep everything?”

 

A voice behind them said, “Because I knew you would need these things again, one day.” Altaїr stood in the doorway, watching them. He shut the door, took two steps forward, and reached up to pull down his hood. “And tonight, you do.”

 

Desmond looked at his things, spread out over the bed, again. Indeed, he would need them. Arriving back in New York naked was more than a little likely to get him arrested on the spot, depending on where the Apple decided to drop him. Apprehension took a hold of him, suddenly; so far, his encounters with the Apple had always been physically taxing. He wasn't a little boy anymore, but he remembered the initial contact especially, that painful sensation of being pulled in several directions at the same time, of shrinking, of aching bones.

 

Nervously, he rubbed his palms together. Pain, he could deal with. Location, however, was something else altogether. “Where exactly are you sending me?”

 

Altaїr walked over to them. “To the same place the Apple found you. It has been, to the day, exactly 16 years. This is why it has to be tonight.”

 

Desmond hadn't realized it was even the same day. Nor had he ever truly acknowledged the passing of the years, lately; time had passed, he had grown – again – and taken the good with the bad. 16 years? Had it really been that long? It felt so short to him, now.

 

Altaїr put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Get dressed.”

 

Desmond told himself Altaïr's fingers weren't trembling, that he was only imagining that.

 

He pulled off his tunic, hunting through the scattered items for his shirt. The material was butter-soft, compared to the rougher weave of the clothes he'd become so accustomed to. He stood, shoved off his breeches, and pulled on his boxer shorts, then the jeans. They were a little loose around his hips, but Desmond was now fitter than he had ever been before. He put on the socks, sat on the edge of the bed, and put on the sneakers. They felt strange on his feet, feather-light compared to the leather boots he'd been wearing.

 

Last, the white hoodie. He pulled it on over the shirt, automatically pulling up the sleeves a bit to free his wrists, and then, with a small smile, reached for the hood, letting it settle over his head.

 

Neither Malik nor Altaїr said anything.

 

He took a deep breath, felt clothes snug against his skin he hadn't worn in 16 years. A shudder ran down his spine. It felt as though he had put on a costume, disguising himself as someone else. He was no longer the person he had once been. “Done.”

 

“Almost.” Altaїr reached for his left arm. He pushed Desmond's sleeve further up. From one pocket of his black robe, Altaїr pulled something that looked like a hidden blade, though one that was missing its bracer. Thick, wide leather straps were fastened to the sheath, ending in sturdy buckles. Closest to the wrist, the entire contraption ended in a metal ring, an inch wide and at least half an inch thick, like a bracelet soldered onto the blade sheath. “Here.”

 

Desmond watched him strap the new hidden blade to his forearm. It felt a little weird, without the familiar bulk of the bracer that also functioned as a mini-shield to deflect incoming blows. Also, without a glove to trigger the mechanism, how was he going to activate it?

 

Altaїr let go of his arm. “Try it.”

 

Malik was leaning forward, brows creased, to get a better view. “You redesigned it _again_?”

 

Desmond inspected the new hidden blade. It was certainly lighter than the conventional ones. The leather straps lay tightly around his forearm, keeping it firmly in place. Curiously, he flexed his left hand, performing the customary motion that would release the blade from its sheath. The back of his hand pressed against the metal ring encircling his wrist, and the blade shot out, with much _less_ force than he was used to, and nearly soundlessly.

 

“Huh.” Malik reached for Desmond's hand, tipping it back into a relaxed position. Slowly, the blade retracted. “I see.” He snagged Desmond's sleeve, pulling it down, looking impressed. “It becomes nearly invisible, like that. Not bad.”

 

“It should serve you well.” Altaїr stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.

 

“It will.” Desmond lowered his arm. “Thank you.”

 

Nervousness took a renewed hold of him. He turned to the bed, gathering up the few items that were left, and shoved them into his messenger bag. Messenger bag – it struck his as oddly appropriate, suddenly. He was truly a messenger, carrying what he had learned here into the future.

 

Malik stood. He eyed Altaїr, who hadn't moved, and walked to stand at his side, slightly behind. The sight brought a smile to Desmond's lips. Even now, after all these years, after everything that had happened. . .

 

“Think of me, every now and then.” Malik settled his sole hand on Altaïr's shoulder, as if to lend him strength. “I will think of you.”

 

Desmond nodded. He swallowed dryly, ran a hand through his hair. “Do it now. Before I – just do it.”

 

_Before I change my mind. Before I beg you to let me stay._

 

Altaїr dropped a hand into his other pocket and pulled out the Apple of Eden. He held it up between them. It was yet dormant, an unassuming lump of dull gold, its surface covered with notches, grooves and lines. Altaïr's other hand came up, held out, palm open.

 

Desmond reached for that hand. His fingertips brushed against warm, calloused skin, a silent, tactile good bye, so different from the much more emotional ones Maria and Malik had given him; apparently, Altaїr couldn't bring himself to embrace Desmond. But that was just as well. Desmond understood -

 

“There is always a choice,” Altaїr said. “Remember that.”

 

\- but these words struck him as odd. “Wait, what do you -”

 

Altaїr activated the Apple of Eden.

 

Desmond was swallowed by a wave of golden light, his question unanswered. He looked, for as long as he could, until the brightness became searing and impossible to bear; only then did he close his eyes. He was going to take that one last impression with him, committing it to memory even as reality began to swirl away around him: Altaїr and Malik, side by side.

 

It was the first thing he had seen, the first time he opened his eyes in Masyaf.

 

Now it would be the last, too.

 

The floor disappeared under his feet, making him feel weightless. Heat traveled along his skin, and he remembered that, as well as the pain that had come in the wake of it, and braced himself. But it wasn't so bad, this time. The heat lessened until it was little more than warmth, and then that vanished completely. It didn't feel as though he was shrinking, or being pulled in different directions; Desmond was just floating, upright, surrounded by light.

 

Was he through, already?

 

He opened his eyes, driven by curiosity. He remembered nothing of his actual, first 'journey'.

 

No, he wasn't through; he was drifting in undefined space, surrounded by light and shadow. There were no walls, no floor. He wasn't sure if there was even air.

 

This _wasn't_ so bad. Why had it hurt so much, that first time? Perhaps traveling through the Apple _was_ different for adults. That left the question what, exactly, had caused him to turn into a small boy during his first journey, in the first place.

 

For a while, Desmond watched the lights shift and change around him. They formed familiar patterns, sometimes: formulas, strings of numbers, equations and symbols. They crept up invisible walls and along a floor that wasn't there, changed, broke apart, formed new patterns.

 

The voice came out of nowhere. “No.”

 

It was Juno.

 

“No,” she repeated firmly. She floated, like Desmond did, in the golden void, seemingly only an arm's length away. The lights crept over her, played along the contours of her body, highlighted the alien beauty of her face. “Not this time.”

 

Warily, Desmond eyed her. He knew what she was. A remnant, a ghost – but a powerful one. Powerful enough that she had somehow managed to preserve herself through the ages, long after her body had fallen to dust. She was intricately tied, to him, to the Apple of Eden, to that choice he had to make. Like Minerva. Like Jupiter.

 

But neither Minerva nor Jupiter had designs upon the future of the planet, as far as Desmond could tell. They seemed contend to guide, to teach, to answer questions. “What do you want?”

 

Juno eyed him in return, contempt written all across her face. “He thwarted me the first time. Minerva helped. But not this time.” She lifted a hand, pointing a finger at him. Light patterns skittered along her arm, danced over her fingertips. “You will not be my undoing. I am not entirely powerless. I am not a mere spirit. You will see.”

 

'He'? Who was 'he'? Altaїr? Desmond looked around, beginning to feel uncomfortable and automatically looking for a way out. Endless, shifting lights, as far as the eye could see. He had never thought to ask just _how_ powerful Minerva, Juno and Jupiter were – aside from the fact that all of them were long since _dead_ , yet somehow continued to exist _._

 

“Look,” he began, “just let me go, all right?”

 

Juno smiled. It wasn't a benign smile. “I will. But not before I've made sure that you -”

 

Desmond was abruptly propelled, no, _pulled_ sidewards, as though a vacuum was sucking him in. Around him, the lights shivered, the patterns breaking apart at an alarming rate. Dimly, he heard a screech of anger – Juno? She was already nothing more than a speck of white clothing in the distance, fading rapidly. Something was pulling him away from her, fast.

 

 _Too_ fast: Desmond craned his neck, saw a tiny blob of darkness expand, knew he was hurtling toward it. There was sound now, too, a long, ear-splitting whine, like an electric charge about to go off. He curled into a ball and tucked his chin down against his chest, covered his ears with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

 

And then the darkness enveloped him, a sensation like warm mud sliding over him, dragging him down.

 

Desmond thought he heard another voice, closer, a mild, almost gentle whisper _inside_ his head.

 

“I am sorry, Cipher.” It was Minerva. He recognized her voice. “I noticed it too late.”

 

Noticed _what_ too late?

 

He slammed into something unyielding, hard as concrete. The impact drove the air out of his lungs.

 

His last thought was that something had gone wrong. _Spectacularly_ wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added time stamps to every chapter. Not sure if they'll make the story easier to read. o.o


	11. ELEVEN

_**Chapter ELEVEN** _

 

\- - -

**Florence, Italy, April 6 th, 1492**

\- - -

 

A sense of urgency pierced through pain-laced fog, bestowing a moment of clarity: something wasn't right. Weightless, yet feeling weighted down, he became aware, at first, of something that surrounded him and pressed against him, slithering like cold fingers along his skin. He noted the pressure was everywhere, his limbs, his chest, his face. His ears, and with the return of his senses Desmond heard muffled sounds, as if through a thick layer of cotton.

 

He took a breath. Water streamed into him. He coughed, but that only served to send more water into his airways. He opened his eyes, saw distorted lights somewhere above. Or was it below?

 

He was drowning.

 

Literally.

 

Panic and a sudden release of adrenaline gave him the strength to fight against the intimate embrace threatening to drag him further down. He _was_ drowning, and the pressure all around him was the press of water. Kicking, straining, Desmond fought for the surface. He was disoriented. Which way was up?

 

Something long and dark was thrust toward him. A pole of some sort. It nearly poked him in the chest. Desmond grasped for it, feeling smooth wood under his fingers. It was pulled upward, and he was pulled upward along with it. He broke through the surface, coughing, gasping for breath, clinging to the wooden pole in desperation. It felt as though he'd swallowed an ocean. The water tasted vile, salty and dirty, _old_.

 

He was grabbed by the back of his hoodie. Someone was shouting at him, a confusing garble of words in a language he hadn't heard before. Then he was heaved up and dragged over the edge of something that ended up digging harshly into his belly. A hand began to thump his back, over and over again, hard enough to hurt. He tried to fend off the blows, but his body wouldn't respond; his body had different ideas, which included expelling the water he'd inhaled and swallowed, forcefully and with much prejudice.

 

He vomited and coughed for an eternity.

 

The hand abusing him eventually stopped trying to hammer a groove into his back, taking a firm hold of the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back instead and pulling. He was tumbled into something that shook and moved all around him, arms and legs bent awkwardly over and against low, narrow benches.

 

A boat. He was on a boat. He was on a boat, and he'd nearly drowned. His belly was cramping, the taste of bile soured his mouth, and his lungs were still reminding him that breathing was a privilege, something to be treasured for the miracle it was.

 

Weakly, Desmond rolled himself onto his side. His right shoulder gave way to the weight of his body with a crack and a sickening grind of bone against bone. Desmond cried out, the shock of injury sending him upright, the boat see-sawing dangerously with his hasty motions.

 

His rescuer barraged him with a renewed torrent of foreign words. Blearily, trying to move his upper body as little as possible, Desmond looked up into a weathered, pinched face. An old man stood bent over him, legs splayed wide to compensate for the swinging of the boat.

 

“I don't understand what you're -” Something in his _brain_ gave way, and suddenly the words made sense. Fucking Apple of Eden and its fucking internal translation program. The next time he got his hands on one, he was going to take it apart with his _teeth_.

 

“Fool!” the old man was shouting. “Hold still, or we'll both drown!”

 

“Sorry.” Desmond coughed again. His voice sounded like something that had been dragged over gravel and then left to dry out in the sun. “Holding still.”

 

The old man heaved a loud sigh. He eyed Desmond suspiciously, shook his head, and muttered, “Carnival is _over_. Damn, drunken fools!” He picked up the long pole and stuck it in the water. “Sit still until we reach the pier.”

 

Desmond sat still. He was on a boat and he had no idea where he was. His shoulder hurt – either broken or dislocated – and he was soaking wet. His rescuer was steering the boat toward the edge of the river. Yes, it was a river: wide, moving sluggishly, and bracketed on both sides by buildings. It was night. A fat, yellow moon hung above the river, partially obscured by clouds.

 

“Where am I?”

 

The old man rolled his eyes. “So drunk you don't even remember where you are? Tch! Typical. Young men these days, you think you own the world. You can't even swim!”

 

Desmond _could_ swim. He'd swum often enough, in the river in the Orontes Valley, during those long, hot summers. He just hadn't been prepared for the Apple to drop him right in the middle of a fucking river in the middle of a foreign city, after wrenching him around like a rag doll. That impact he'd felt, that had been him, crashing into the water. He could probably consider himself lucky 'only' his shoulder had suffered.

 

He looked around once more. Something had happened while the Apple was sending him back to his time. Something had gone wrong – Juno had intervened, somehow. Or tried to, until Minerva noticed, and now Desmond was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be.

 

Where am I?” he asked again. And then, because at this point it _wouldn't_ surprise him, “What year is it?”

 

The old man stared at him. He wore pants cut off at his calves, no shoes, a dirt-streaked, once-white shirt laced at the collar. Very slowly, he said, “It is the year of our Lord, 1492. This is Florence. And before you ask, that's in Italy. Were you dropped on your head as a small child?”

 

 _Fuck_.

 

They reached the edge of the river. The old man steered the boat sideways against a set of stairs descending into the water, making fast with a short line of rope thrown over a pole. A basket stood on one stair, complete with a fishing pole leaned against it. That explained how the man had seen Desmond. A bridge spanned the river not far from where they'd landed; the old man was probably assuming Desmond had fallen from it in a drunken stupor.

 

Who the hell fished in the middle of the night, and in that kind of water? If the fish tasted anything like the mouthfuls of water he'd swallowed. . .

 

“Get out of my boat.”

 

Desmond decided he really didn't need an answer to those questions and carefully scrambled out of the boat, mindful of his injured shoulder. The pain was beginning to turn into numbness, spreading from his shoulder all the way into the fingertips of his right arm.

 

“Thank you,” he offered meekly.

 

“Now get out of my sight,” the old man muttered. He picked up the fishing pole, plopped himself down on the stairs, and demonstratively turned his back. “And _stay_ gone. Damn young people, I should have let you drown. One evil less under god's sky.”

 

Desmond went, although he had no idea where to. He walked along the waterfront. The air smelled of rain, and of the river. His soaked clothes chaffed unpleasantly with each step, and soon he was shivering in the cool night air. The street he was following curved gently along with the river cutting a wide swath through the city. Boats were tied to small piers, bobbing gently on the slow-moving water.

 

As soon as a gap between the houses lining the riverfront presented itself, Desmond veered away from the water. Aside from that old man fishing in the middle of the night, there were no other people out and about. The houses lay quiet, all windows dark; they were taller than the huts of the village in Masyaf, sturdier, well-kept. They seemed to lean toward one another, their roofs just far enough apart to allow faint moonlight to show Desmond the way along cobble-stoned, uneven streets.

 

He moved slowly, cautiously, his senses turned outward, but his thoughts turned inward.

 

What was he going to do now? He _had_ gone forward in time, but not far enough. Minerva's intervention had saved him from whatever Juno had been planning to do to him, but at the cost of stranding him in the wrong century, not to mention the wrong place. Florence was so far away from New York that Desmond might as well have landed on the _moon_.

 

Desmond paused, staring numbly ahead. New York didn't even _exist_ yet. Neither did America, for that matter, at least not the America he came from. 1492? That was the year Columbus set out to discover the New World.

 

He was so screwed.

 

The toe of his sneaker snagged on something, sending him stumbling a step forward. The abrupt motion jostled him enough to remind him of his injury, dull flares of pain replacing the numbness that had made walking bearable, up to now.

 

Breathing through the sickening sensation of bone grinding against bone, Desmond stepped off the street, into the deep shadows under an arched doorway. He leaned against a wall, took a hold of his right wrist, and carefully folded his arm across his belly. That was enough to make his eyes water. Teeth grit, he fumbled at the chest strap of his messenger bag, wrapping it around his wrist twice. It wasn't the best solution, but at least the makeshift sling restricted the movement of his right arm.

 

He needed medical aid. He was still clinging to the hope that his shoulder was just dislocated, not broken; nevertheless, he needed to find a doctor, or a hospital. The only consolation he could draw upon, currently, was that it was his _right_ shoulder, not his left.

 

He was about to step back into the street when faint noise caught his attention. Heavy boots rang against the cobblestones, accompanied by a metallic clatter. Alert, Desmond drew as far back into the doorway as he could, and not a minute too soon: a group of heavily armed men strode past, their metal chest plates and the viciously curved blades of their halberds glinting dully.

 

Guards. A patrol, probably, making sure Florence's streets were safe during the night. Desmond caught a glimpse of bearded faces under metal helmets tipped with absurd-looking, feathery plumes. The pinched expressions and the guards' overall bearings, stiff-backed, moving with determination, caused him to freeze on the spot.

 

Better not draw attention to himself. Desmond had no idea how the city of Florence functioned. If there was a curfew, and these guards caught him out walking the streets, dressed as he was in clothes that had to look completely foreign to them, it could turn ugly for him, quickly.

 

He waited until the staccato sound of marching feet receded in the distance. A careful glance down the street showed the back of the last man turning a corner. Desmond stepped back into the street, undecided and tense. He could turn back, but that would only lead him to the river. He'd had enough of water, for a while.

 

At an even slower pace, he followed the way the guards had gone. With some luck, he'd come across a suitable hiding place where he could wait out the night. In the morning, it would be easier to acquire some of the local currency as well as something that allowed him to blend in better with the city's population. He wasn't above pickpocketing and stealing, if the occasion called for it.

 

His hopes of finding a hiding place were dashed: the street opened up into a large plaza surrounded by picturesque houses on three sides. Facing Desmond was a massive, tall cathedral, a bell tower at one end and a ridiculously large, imposing dome at the other. The space between the houses and the cathedral offered nothing in the way of cover, lying bare and empty under the moon.

 

He was going to have to find another way. At the rate things were going, he'd be safer if he took to the rooftops, slippery-looking shingles and the greater chance of discovery be damned. Up there, he wouldn't be flying blind, at least. Cities were easier to navigate from the top, than from the street level.

 

A faint cry reached his ears. “Ah, no! Please! I've done nothing to you!”

 

There, close to the cathedral, were the guards that had marched past him earlier. They stood in a semi-circle around a person crouched on the ground. One of the guards was raising his halberd; Desmond saw him shove its blunt end down at the person on the ground and heard another faint cry. Squinting, Desmond could just make out two arms raised protectively, and a bit of black robe.

 

A thief?

 

No, it was a monk. Desmond recognized the distinctive robe cinched at the waist with a simple belt as the man was roughly pulled to his feet. He was shoved against the cathedral wall, and another guard delivered a brutal poke with the end of his halberd, causing the man to fold over at the waist. Rancorous laughter drifted across the plaza, along with a loud yell of pain.

 

The guards of this city apparently amused themselves by assaulting men of the cloth. Wonderful.

 

Desmond hesitated.

 

He couldn't get involved. He _shouldn't_ get involved.

 

But monks belonged to orders, and orders ran hospitals. At least, they had in the Holy Land. And a grateful monk, rescued from the evil guards by a benevolent stranger, would perhaps overlook the fact that said stranger was oddly dressed and carried odder items, and would point his rescuer toward a hospital, or a doctor.

 

Desmond fell into a flat run, crossing the plaza. As far as plans went, he'd had better ones, but it wasn't like he had many options here, in the first place. He picked up speed. The dulled pain from his injured shoulder flared up, but instead of letting that hamper him, Desmond drew on it now, letting it carry him right into the cluster of guards.

 

He killed two without breaking stride, the tip of his hidden blade finding the unprotected areas between breast plate and chin, and slashed across the face of a third guard who turned around, alerted by the sudden commotion. A halberd was jabbed at Desmond, easily deflected with a sweeping kick; he slipped up against the guard wielding it and cut his throat, ducking out of the way of arterial spray and under the long sword that aimed to take his head off, swung by one of the remaining two guards.

 

His sense of danger, barely tickled by taking down these men, screaming a warning, but it was too late: his turn brought him up against something white that appeared behind him out of nowhere. He caught a glimpse of amber eyes, narrowed, now widening, beard, a face lying shadowed under a hood -

 

A fist crashed into Desmond's temple, dazing him. He retaliated swiftly, automatically, directing a stab center mass at the person in front of him, shifting backward at the same time. The tip of his hidden blade scratched over metal, throwing his aim off, then sank with a satisfying crunch into something far less solid, eliciting a pained yelp from this new assailant.

 

A hard punch landed on his injured shoulder, turning the world white and soundless around him, as if it was holding its breath. The rush of pain that followed after nearly brought him to his knees. His left elbow was grabbed; he was spun around, shoved.

 

The cathedral wall put a merciful dampener on the agony, and everything else.

 

\- - -

 

Agony coaxed him back into consciousness. His left arm was being torn off at the shoulder. Desmond reared up with a hoarse cry and was promptly pulled back down, a hand pressing a warning against his throat. Someone was speaking to him, a soft, hurried litany -

 

“Almost done, almost done, just a little bit more -”

 

\- and then his shoulder gave, like it had when the fisherman pulled him into the boat, and the bone settled back into its socket. Heat traversed along his skin, radiating outward from his arm, but it wasn't the sharp pain of before. Gasping for breath, still half-dazed, Desmond stared up into soft, concerned-looking blue eyes – a man, leaning over him, face framed by blonde hair, chin and cheeks covered with a peach fuzz – and kicked.

 

Or tried to. His legs wouldn't move, only jerked spasmodically, but the stranger hopped back quickly nevertheless, releasing Desmond's arm, surprise written clearly across his face. Then he leaned back in.

 

“We mean no harm. Please, calm down.”

 

'We' indicated the stranger wasn't alone: evidence of that pressed hard enough against Desmond's ribs to hurt. Desmond stared down at the pair of arms crossed over his chest, holding him down, and realized there was someone behind him. He also noticed he was horizontal, his legs tied together at the ankles with rope, which in turn was wrapped around a sturdy bed post. At least now he knew why he hadn't been able to lift his feet for a kick.

 

It didn't explain why he was half-naked, or why the arms wrapped around him were tightening even more, or why a baritone voice whispered roughly, “Do not move,” right into his ear.

 

Or why his hidden blade was gone, his left wrist wrapped in rope like his ankles, pulled sideways across. . . a bed?

 

“Don't move,” the voice repeated, warningly.

 

Desmond was lying back to chest with someone. The lessening of the pain from his injured shoulder was almost as bad as the pain itself had been, causing his head to spin. Other impressions filtered in: of danger, of this definitely not being the plaza outside the cathedral anymore, of the vulnerability forced upon him, and that one, that last impression, made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up and memory return.

 

He had been defeated, swiftly and embarrassingly easily. Someone had joined the tussle with the guards and taken him out.

 

“My,” the blue-eyed man said, curiosity plain in his voice, his expression, “but that _is_ rather fascinating.” He leaned in again, staring at Desmond, as if Desmond was an insect pinned down for study. “The likeness is uncanny! Why, I'll be!”

 

“I am glad,” the person behind Desmond said, wearily, “that you find this so amusing.”

 

“Not amusing,” the blue-eyed man protested, “interesting!” He seemed to want to reach for Desmond's face and thought better of it, humming under his breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Are you certain you're not related? Maybe your father. . .”

 

The suggestion, trailing off like that, caused a certain tension in Desmond's 'cushion'. “I am very sure.” The rough, calloused fingers splayed over Desmond's ribs prodded him none-too-gently. “I'm going to let go now. Do not try anything.”

 

The jostling was bad enough to reawaken the pain of strained tendons and muscle that had just begun to lessen. Desmond stared at the ceiling, noting its distinctive wood paneling, and concentrated on keeping any and all sounds firmly locked behind gritted teeth while the man behind him slid sideways, out from under him. He sagged back against the bed, sweat beading at his temples. His aborted journey through time, his subsequent plunge into the river and everything that followed – fate apparently had decreed Desmond be fucked over severely, every time he came into contact with the Apple of Eden. First, the damn thing had turned him into a little boy, and now this.

 

He turned his head to regard his 'cushion' and received his second – or was it the third? - bad shock of the night.

 

“Oh, hell no!” Despite the bindings at his ankles and one wrist, Desmond instinctively tried to scramble away. “Not again!”

 

The man sitting cross-legged at his side could have been Altaïr's long-lost, slightly older brother, or at the very least a cousin. His hair was darker, nearly black, and longer. His eyes were a familiar shade of amber, but lacking that disturbing shine, the one feature most people had commented on, seeing Altaїr and Desmond side by side, when they weren't commenting on the obvious likeness. A meticulously trimmed beard lined his jaw.

 

The man's eyebrows lowered over narrowing eyes. “Leonardo, bring me more rope.”

 

“Really, don't you think -”

 

Desmond shoved himself onto his left side. It wasn't panic that gripped him, lent him strength, but anger. Fucking Apple of Eden. Fucking time travel. He swung his right arm around, ignoring the flare of pain, scrabbling at the bindings around his left wrist. This was like Masyaf all over again, but worse; _one_ lookalike was bad enough, but _two_?

 

“Leonardo! Now!”

 

The bed dipped behind Desmond; the man leaned over him, pressed his knees into Desmond's back and his palm over the side of Desmond's throat. His thumb dug into the vein pulsing there. Desmond jerked his head back, dislodging the hold, and bared his teeth in a snarl. With as much force as he could muster, he yanked his knees toward his chest, hearing the telltale creak of wood as the rope between his ankles and the bed post was pulled tight.

 

He did it again. This time, something _cracked_ and splintered.

 

“Wait!” The man called Leonardo came running up to the side of the bed, a length of rope trailing from one hand. His blue eyes were wide with shock. “Ezio, no -”

 

Ezio?

 

The name rang a bell, but something slammed into the back of Desmond's head before he could figure out where he'd heard it before, why it sounded so damn familiar, and sent him spiraling into darkness.

 

\- - -

 

Touch woke him.

 

A single point of it, tracing the line of his jaw, bristling against the stubble emerging there, and Desmond shuddered, tucked his chin down, and mumbled, “Mmmno.”

 

The touch – a single fingertip – disappeared. Cloth rustled, followed by the creak of wood.

 

Desmond took inventory. He was lying on his side. His shoulder hurt. His _everything_ hurt, and really, he was due a break from being the ping-pong ball of fate and golden Apples, because somehow he always ended up either changed or injured, and he was heartily sick of it. Someone, somewhere, had to cut him some damn slack. Otherwise he'd return to the future a cripple, or insane.

 

 _If_ he ever returned to the future.

 

He opened his eyes, squeezed them shut again: sunlight was streaming in through an open square across the room – 'window', his mind helpfully supplied – and he hadn't been prepared for that, because it had been night the last time he was in a position to take note of these mundane trivialities.

 

A chair scraped over wooden floor. “Better?”

 

Carefully, Desmond looked again; the man sitting in the chair blocked most of the sunlight now. Tiredly, Desmond took in the white clothes, so different from the robes of Masyaf but so _similar_ at the same time: elaborate, almost playful, tailored with an attention to detail. The wide belt alone, with its large, silver front piece in the distinctive shape of a stylized 'A', had probably cost more than a Masyaf Master Assassin's entire outfit.

 

He glanced up, into a face so like his own but _not_ , felt a spot at the back of his head throb dully.

 

“You have some explaining to do,” the man said. “I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze. And you are?”

 

“Sick of time travel,” Desmond muttered. “Ezio, huh?”

 

Desmond's mind sluggishly dragged up more memories, of the Apple of Eden's golden glow and the horrifying images it had shown him, the connections between Those Who Came Before and the future, _his_ future. Ezio – the Prophet. Desmond didn't know much more about him than that, only that he was part of it all. Another ancestor, most likely. In fact, he was certain of that. Desmond's family tree seemed to have a predilection for producing men with amazingly similar faces.

 

Ezio leaned forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. He looked troubled, angry, but also curious, eyes tracking every one of Desmond's feeble motions. “Time travel? Explain.”

 

“You knocked me out twice, without a reason, and tied me up,” Desmond said flatly, “so fuck you.”

 

He hadn't only been knocked out again, but also tied up more securely, without care for his shoulder. A length of rope ran between his tied wrists and ankles, keeping him in a curled position on his side. He curled up a little more, to relieve some of the strain on his arms. The bastard had also taken his hidden blade away – Altaïr's farewell gift to him.

 

Ezio looked at him speculatively. “If I untie you, what will you do?”

 

Now _there_ was a loaded question. Ezio wasn't Altaїr – obviously. He had none of the knowledge Altaїr had had. Would a man from the 15th century even understand the concept of time travel, or would he proclaim it sorcery and slit Desmond's throat? Ezio was an Assassin, at least according to his clothes and the hidden blade strapped to his right forearm, but in the greater scheme of things that meant nothing: even if he was one of Desmond's ancestors – and thus a descendant of Altaїr – Ezio was likely completely unaware of the existence of the Apple of Eden, of Those Who Came Before.

 

Altaїr had kept that knowledge secret from his own sons, after all.

 

God, he missed Altaїr. And Malik, and Maria -

 

“Something tells me that if you have to _think_ about an answer, I am probably better off leaving you as you are,” Ezio said, tightly. “At least explain why you were attacking Marcello.”

 

Desmond didn't even know who that was. “Who?”

 

“The monk. At the Santa Maria del Fiore?” Interpreting Desmond's uncomprehending look correctly, Ezio groaned under his breath. “The cathedral? With the big, hard-to-miss dome? Don't tell me you're not remembering anything!”

 

“I was attacking the _guards_ ,” Desmond protested. “I never laid a finger on the monk.”

 

Ezio's expression remained suspicious. “And why were you attacking the guards?”

 

For fuck's sake.

 

“I needed help, okay? I fell into the river and hurt my shoulder. I thought a monk would know where I could find a hospital or a doctor or something.” If Ezio was so insistent on having answers, Desmond was going to give him some – and then lie here and enjoy the sight of Ezio's head exploding. “I arrived here by accident, and now I'm stuck, in the wrong century and all.”

 

“Wait, what – wrong century, what are you -” Ezio's eyes were bugging from his skull. “Who _are_ you?”

 

“My name is Desmond Miles. I'm an Assassin. I come from the future. Technically, I'm on my way _back_ to the future, which is going to be a bit of a problem, seeing that I need an Apple of Eden for that.” Desmond waited a beat. “Any further questions?”

 

Ezio sank back into the chair, mouth hanging open. He seemed to have aged ten years over the course of the last twenty seconds. He laughed, a tired, worn sound, trailing off into dry chuckles.

 

Not the reaction Desmond had been expecting. “What's so funny?”

 

Ezio rose to his feet, standing at the side of the bed, causing Desmond to wonder if maybe unloading all that information on him had been a mistake. Ezio was armed, Desmond wasn't; Ezio had freedom of movement while Desmond was hog-tied. As if being captured hadn't been enough of a blow to his pride already, now Desmond had to lie here, helpless, while Ezio was probably contemplating the fastest way to kill him.

 

“Well then, Desmond Miles,” Ezio said, “we seem to have a mutual problem.”

 

What?

 

He reached for the rope between Desmond's wrists and ankles. His hidden blade emerged from its bracer, and with a negligent flick of the wrist, Ezio cut through the rope. Without further explanation, he proceeded to saw through the other bindings.

 

Mutely, Desmond stared up at him. The relief of tension, as the rope unraveled and his wrists and ankles were freed, was painful; his confusion was more so. A mutual problem? Ezio _knew_ about the Apple of Eden?

 

As soon as his limbs were free, he sat up. “How do you know about the Apple?”

 

“Simple,” Ezio said. His hidden blade flicked back into its sheath. “I lost it.”

 

\- - -

 

Four hours later, Desmond retreated into a corner, sat down on something that might or might not have been a chair, and buried his face in his hands. His head was filled with a low buzz, as if bees were trapped inside his skull. The spot where Ezio had hit him – with the blunt end of of a dagger – throbbed dully. His shoulder wasn't acting up any longer, but a low-key hum of pain remained, cautioning him against sudden motions.

 

Ezio and Leonardo were talking in another corner of the workshop: Leonardo was Leonardo _da Vinci_ , and Ezio had dragged Desmond straight into the world-famous artist's personal abode after knocking him out, but no, wait, Leonardo wasn't famous _yet_ and Desmond was probably better off not mentioning that he _would_ be. Who knew what would happen? Maybe the Mona Lisa would never be painted. Maybe Leonardo would run off into the ether, going crazy over the knowledge that in the future, millions of people would spend ungodly amounts of money to take a peek at his paintings.

 

Ezio was. . . Ezio, and by Desmond's careful estimate, Ezio wasn't so bad when he wasn't knocking people out and dragging them all over the place, like pieces of meat - when he was keeping his hands to himself, and really, what was up with the constant touching? You'd think Ezio needed to continually assure himself Desmond wasn't going to vanish into thin air or grow a second head at any moment, the way he kept putting his hands on Desmond as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

 

Maybe Italian men were just touchy-feely like that. Maybe Desmond would be doing the same, had he been in Ezio's stead; but he wasn't, and he wouldn't, and anyway, it _was not important_.

 

The important fact was that an Apple of Eden was within reach, or would have been, had Ezio not frigging had it stolen by a _monk_ , who, by the way, was the cousin of the monk Desmond had witnessed being beaten up by the guards – and that was how Ezio had entered the picture in the first place, really, because naturally, he wanted his Apple of Eden back.

 

Desmond was so screwed. His head was – the buzzing got worse with each passing minute. He'd probably suffered a concussion, on top of everything else, and that just rounded up the magnificent clusterfuck he'd landed in.

 

“You look a bit pale.”

 

Desmond spread his fingers and glared upward. “Fuck off.”

 

He wasn't in the mood. He'd told them everything – _everything_ , except for a few details that were no one's business but Malik's, Altaïr's and Maria's, the holy trinity of the life Desmond had left behind – and Ezio had told him stuff in return. And then Ezio had gone off on tangents, asking a million questions about Masyaf, about Altaїr, about techniques and weapons.

 

Desmond could understand the curiosity. But he was on a bit of a tight schedule, here. This monk, Savonarola, had apparently taken the Apple of Eden to Venice, and was probably using it for things that would send the city into a frenzy, if he managed to activate it. Or maybe he'd lost it along the way, or sold it. Maybe the Apple was on the way to the moon, right now, or about to fall into the greedy hands of the Templars, who were very active in this time, according to everything Desmond had been told by Ezio and Leonardo.

 

“Such language,” Ezio admonished. “Come on, outside. A bit of sun will do you good.”

 

“No, look, we – I have to plan.” Desmond dropped his hands into his lap. “I need that Apple. I need to return to my time.”

 

“ _We_ will get the Apple,” Ezio assured him, “do not worry about that. But it is a long ride to Venice, and in your current condition. . .” He cocked his head. “How far do you think you'll get?”

 

Resentful, Desmond ground his teeth. He had a sore shoulder, that was all. A bruise on the back of his head. That was hardly enough to put him out of commission. Ezio _had_ defeated him in a moment when Desmond was already injured and reeling from the discovery of being stuck in the wrong century, but that didn't mean he was weak. “As far as I have to.”

 

Ezio sighed. He glanced at Leonardo, who had been watching the scene with a barely-there smile. “The child does not want to listen.”

 

“The _child_ ,” Desmond pointed out, rankled, “is older than you. I'm older than both of you.” He did some quick math. “I'm 39.” And he looked like he had when he was 19. Urgh. “I'm ancient.”

 

One corner of Leonardo's mouth twitched upward. “Then you should know better, old man.” At Desmond's glare, he held up both hands and smiled disarmingly. “Peace. This is my house, and I've agreed to shelter you. Show a little gratitude, and honor me with your presence at my table, tonight.”

 

Was he being ungrateful? He was. He hadn't even thanked Leonardo for the help, neither for the freely offered shelter nor for the medical aid, earlier. “I'm sorry. It's just – I don't even know where to begin.”

 

And that, too, was like Masyaf all over again.

 

Ezio and Leonardo shared another glance.

 

“With a little reading, perhaps,” Leonardo said, and picked up a small stack of documents from a cluttered work table. He held them out. “Here.”

 

Desmond took the documents, confused. The pages were old, yellowed, brittle at the edges, and worn. Faded lines of script ran in orderly lines across the pages, and there were diagrams, and detailed drawings. For a moment, Desmond had no idea what he was looking at, leafing through the first few.

 

Then he knew, and it was _killing_ him. He lowered the pages, holding them on his lap, thoughts about Savonarola, the Apple of Eden, fading into the background like white noise.

 

He looked at the rest of the pages.

 

That, right there, was Altaïr's handwriting, and there, a portrait of Maria, done with just a few quick strokes of ink but capturing her perfectly. And there, the rendering of a hidden blade – the previous model to the one Desmond had been given as a farewell gift, already changed so it no longer required the sacrifice of a finger.

 

The last page was almost entirely blank, except for a small doodle at the very bottom. It was nothing – a scrawled tree, heavily simplified, on a tuft of grass – but Desmond was suddenly close to tears again. That was _his_ doodle, done one afternoon after Malik had rescued him from a tower and then dragged him into a meeting. Altaїr must have found the page and kept it.

 

A warm, calloused hand settled on the back of Desmond's neck. “Come,” Ezio said, all traces of his earlier mocking gone, “outside. You need some air.”

 

Desmond wiped his sleeve over his eyes, rose, and after a moment's hesitation handed the pages back to Leonardo, who took them with a grave, worried expression. He couldn't look at them. He'd _seen_ Altaїr write some of those pages, and now they were old and worn with age, and. . .

 

Ezio gently pushed him toward the door to Leonardo's workshop and outside, into a tiny courtyard fenced in by stone walls. Desmond didn't know what time it was – late afternoon, perhaps. Leonardo's workshop was in the middle of Florence, a fact that now expressed itself in the din of city life greeting them as Ezio steered him toward a stone bench in a corner.

 

“Sit,” Ezio said.

 

Desmond sat. It was warm, and the air smelled. . . differently than the air he was used to. Faint traces of smoke and a hint of flowers, sweet and heavy, but also the scent of cities, that nameless odor no one noticed until they went someplace else. He heard the clatter of horse hooves against pavement, the click-clack of heels against cobblestones, conversation, but those sounds were meaningless, trite.

 

Roughly 300 years had passed, and yet Desmond had spoken to Altaїr, to all of them, only yesterday.

 

“He was a wise man.” Ezio took a seat next to him. “And shrewd.” He sighed. “I have been trying for some time now to find all the pages of Altaïr's Codex. I know it must be hard for you, to look at it, but. . .it has helped me, so much. I have learned so much. Do you perhaps know. . .?”

 

Desmond couldn't even begin to fathom how parts of Altaïr's 'Codex' had ended up in Italy. Ezio had told him there were very few Assassins here, a handful at best in Florence, and most of those came from Ezio's own family; the brotherhood's spread to different countries seemed to have thinned the ranks considerably. And as much as he appreciated Ezio's obvious interest in ancient techniques and knowledge, just thinking about the why of it all was painful and confusing.

 

Why Italy? What had happened in _Masyaf_ , for the pages to end up here? And where was the _rest_ of it? By the time Desmond was finally allowed to undertake missions, Altaїr had filled an entire bookshelf with his writings – not to forget the many gadgets he'd been tinkering with, the prototypes of hidden blades, models of weapons far ahead of their time - and begun construction of a library underneath the fortress.

 

“No. I don't know. He was always writing, always.” Desmond recalled it vividly, Altaїr with the Apple, quill or reed pen in hand, scribbling and scratching, and just remembering that made his throat feel tight all over again.

 

“I'm sorry.” Ezio sounded uncomfortable. “I admit, I wasn't entirely sure you were telling the truth. I've seen some things in my life, but this, well. . .” He cleared his throat. “That is why we showed you the Codex. So I could observe your reaction. I must apologize. I know misery when I see it.”

 

Desmond couldn't blame him for being suspicious. Anybody listening to his convoluted tale of time travel and living in Masyaf would think Desmond had more than one loose screw. People were more likely to believe in ghost stories or the existence of an omnipotent, yet invisible and rather absent god, than consider the possibility of a precursor race and their incredibly powerful tools. Even with hard evidence at hand, it was easier to deny the obvious and cleave to the known, the familiar.

 

“I'm fine. I'm all right,” he murmured. “It's okay.”

 

Desmond leaned against the rough stone wall and closed his eyes, concentrating on letting go of the memories. He couldn't afford to let his emotions overwhelm him now. Too much was at stake; he needed to retrieve the Apple of Eden. Then, he needed to figure out how to use it. That in itself was probably going to be a challenge. He had no idea how to calibrate it, or program it, to send himself forward in time, and there was the possibility that Juno would intervene again.

 

Come to think of it, he didn't even know how to activate it, at all. Up to the very end, on the few occasions that he'd handled the Apple, it always remained dormant in his hand, even when Desmond had grown into an adult again.

 

He decided to worry about that later, once they had gotten the damn thing back.

 

“So,” he asked, calmer now, resolved, “where do we start?”

 

“Mm. With different clothes, I think. Walking around like this is just going to get you arrested, or laughed at.” Ezio looked at him, appraising. “Even then, I think you will draw attention.” He held his hand against Desmond's. The difference in skin tone was obvious; compared to Desmond, Ezio was deathly pale. He smirked, eyes twinkling. “The ladies must have swarmed you, in Masyaf. Such a pretty face.”

 

The abrupt change of topic and that last comment successfully managed to derail Desmond's previous train of thought about the Apple of Eden and the difficulties that possibly awaited them in retrieving it.

 

There had been no 'ladies' in Masyaf, only scores of hard-working village women and the wives of the Assassins. None of them had ever 'swarmed' anyone – and even if they had, Desmond had been a little too busy learning the thousand creative ways to break a body, to pay any attention to it.

 

“No?” Ezio's smirk widened into a grin. He patted Desmond's knee. “Ah, so perhaps there is something I can still teach you then, old man.”

 

'Pretty face'? What the hell? A few minor, cosmetic differences asides, Ezio had just commented on his _own_ face. Desmond stared at him. “I'm not sure that's a skill set an Assassin really needs.”

 

“Hah!” Ezio chuckled. “You would be surprised.”

 

\- - -

**Florence, Italy, April 8 th, 1492**

\- - -

 

“I can't watch this,” Desmond murmured. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

 

Leonardo nodded. “Me too.”

 

Around them, the Piazza Santa Croce was teeming with people. Colorful market stalls, offering goods from all over the known world – a decidedly smaller world than the one Desmond had known in New York, but definitely larger than the one he'd spent the last 16 years in – had attracted an early morning crowd. This was just one of many markets spread all over Florence, Leonardo had explained on the way here, that made the city the center of commerce and culture of Europe.

 

Desmond hadn't been surrounded by such a large crowd of people in a very long time, and found it all a little intimidating, not to mention too crowded. The inhabitants of Florence were so different from the people of Masyaf. They were livelier, louder. They laughed more, enjoying the wealthy city around them. They wore outrageous clothing; fashion, Leonardo explained, was another aspect that made Florence attractive. Then there were, of course, the sciences, the arts, the discoveries, the rise of a new way of thinking that promised freedom and enlightenment.

 

Desmond wasn't interested in any of that. His attention was wholly occupied.

 

He was watching Ezio flirt with one of the market women. He was watching him flirt with _all_ the women; before they'd even arrived at this particular stall, Ezio had broken at least four hearts with his easy smiles and charming compliments, and none of the women seemed to mind, and it was so _embarrassing_.

 

Not that Ezio was bad at it: a word, a smirk, a wink, and even the pinch-faced crone three market stalls over had been simpering like a teenager and sold them peaches for half the usual price. The pimple-faced girl at the fish stand had given him a free sample of 'delicious, imported squid', and the woman selling fresh-baked bread tucked a sweet bun into Ezio's hand with a saucy grin.

 

If charm was a liquid, Ezio would be wet.

 

Desmond turned away. He couldn't watch this. It wasn't like he hadn't had his fair share of flirts, in the bar, back before everything went haywire; he couldn't deny that Ezio was far more successful than he had ever been, either, but Desmond still felt embarrassed on his behalf, and perhaps a little jealous. Flirting like that, with any of the women he'd known, would have gotten Desmond _slapped_ , not smiled at.

 

Leonardo wandered off. Having nothing better to do, Desmond followed him, idly perusing the market stalls to pass the time until Ezio was done with 'business'.

 

The vital purchases had already been made, at a shop in one of the streets leading from the Piazza Santa Croce toward the river Arno. His new shirt was more elaborate than Desmond would have liked, with stitched designs decorating the lapels and sleeves, as well as trailing laces. The pants were restrictive, not tight, but made of stiff cloth, so different from the comfortable weave that had been used in Masyaf, to allow for the greatest range of movement possible.

 

The boots were the worst thing about the entire outfit. Desmond was weirdly conscious of every single step he took, the 'clack' of heel he couldn't seem to avoid, no matter how he put his foot down. Masyaf boots had been made of leather, with leather soles. An Assassin relied on his feet as much as his hands, when it came to climbing. He couldn't imagine that scaling walls with such a stiff, hard sole was very practical.

 

At least he'd escaped the more garish color variations the owner of the store seemed to think were all the rage. Desmond had put his foot down, on that, having no interest in walking around like a rainbow on legs. The shirt and pants were all different shades of black, the boots a dark brown.

 

Leonardo stopped at a stall offering live birds in cages. With mounting disbelief, Desmond watched him purchase several, only to then open up the cages and let the birds fly free.

 

“I hate caged things,” Leonardo explained when he noticed Desmond's perplexed stare. He appeared entirely unfazed by the strange looks the people around them were shooting him, as well as the merchant's annoyed mutterings. “People should not put animals into cages. It isn't natural.”

 

Warily, Desmond eyed the birds. Some had flown right off, but others had settled on the colorful tents and poles of the nearby market stands, and people were pointing at them now, and then they pointed at Leonardo and whispered to one another. Desmond had been hoping to avoid unnecessary attention, but neither Leonardo nor Ezio seemed to grasp the concept: Leonardo with the birds, and Ezio walked around in his distinctive, white outfit in the light of day, apparently unconcerned that anyone would recognize him for an Assassin.

 

Desmond was receiving his fair share of attention, as well. Ezio had been right. Even with contemporary clothes, Desmond's deeply tanned skin attracted curious looks. He avoided returning them, keeping his head down as much as possible. Without a hood, he felt naked.

 

Ezio had returned his hidden blade, at least. Its metal bracelet was a comforting weight around Desmond's left wrist.

 

“I need to get out of here,” Desmond muttered. People were bumping into him on all sides. “All these people are making me paranoid.” And this was just _one_ of the many markets, in the city. “I used to be used to crowds. The city I come from, in the future. . .it's even worse than this.”

 

Leonardo smiled at him. “You must miss it very much.”

 

“Not really.”

 

“No?”

 

He thought about New York, and mentally compared the life he'd had there to the life in Masyaf. “No. It's not my home anymore.” His mood darkened; every time he thought about Masyaf, he thought of everything he'd lost. “It never was.”

 

Leonardo touched him on the arm, a small gesture of compassion. “Let's find Ezio. I'm hungry, and I have an appointment later in the day that I would rather not sit through with an empty belly.”

 

\- - -

 

In the afternoon, after they returned from their market trip and eaten a meal cobbled together from Ezio's 'gifts' and other, more mundane purchases, Leonardo handed Ezio the key to the workshop. “Now, don't touch anything. Don't _destroy_ anything. I'll return in the morning.”

 

Though his workshop was located in the middle of Florence, Leonardo didn't live in the city itself. In the evenings, unless something kept him occupied, he took a horse or cart to Vinci, his home town, where he looked after his elderly father.

 

Ezio, who had been in sickeningly good spirits all day, twirled the key around a finger. “No worries.”

 

“I know you,” Leonardo said, with a weak smile, “so I worry.” He picked up a leather bag, donned an odd, red hat, and joked, “Now pray for me, friends.”

 

“'Pray'?” Desmond asked, as soon as Leonardo had left the workshop.

 

“He makes his money painting portraits,” Ezio explained. He grinned. “Some of his clients are. . . _choosy_. The women especially. Naturally, they want to look their best on a painting.”

 

“I see.”

 

Desmond turned back to the map of Italy Leonardo had given him. It was hand-drawn, the names of cities and geographical landmarks painstakingly penciled in, and old, but serviceable enough for his purposes. The Apple's translation program, or whatever it was that had force-fed Desmond _two_ languages by now, enabled him to speak Italian – or the Florentine dialect of it – but not to read it; still, he easily found Florence on the map, and from there traced a route north-east to Venice, in the Gulf of Venice.

 

How long would it take, to cover that distance? Desmond assumed they were going to use horses for transportation. Perhaps they would ride to the city called Rimini, east of Florence, and take a ship from there. Perhaps they -

 

Warm breath stroked over the back of his neck.

 

He turned around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, his ingrained sense of self-preservation kicking in and guiding him into a reflexive strike.

 

Ezio blocked the elbow that flew at the side of his head. “Twitchy.”

 

So Ezio _could_ stealth up to someone. Wide-eyed, Desmond stared at him, pretending his heart wasn't trying to hammer out of his ribcage. “What the _hell_?” Ezio stood close enough for Desmond to be trapped between the edge of the table and the grinning Assassin. “If you want to fight, all you have to do is _ask_ , man.”

 

“Mm. Would you?”

 

Fight? Yes. Ezio's sneak attack had rattled him enough to rankle; Desmond had let his guard down, around both of them, and was making a mockery of the training he'd gone through – always be vigilant, always expect the unexpected – in Masyaf. Ezio probably thought him a wet-behind-the-ears Novice, and that was doing things to Desmond's composure he didn't even want to begin to think about. “Back off.”

 

Ezio didn't budge. “Do I bother you, here?”

 

 _Anybody_ standing that close to Desmond would bother him, especially people whom he had known for less than three days. He was suddenly aware of the heat of the other man's body, the way Ezio was leaning forward ever so slightly, the slight grin sitting in the corner of Ezio's mouth.

 

“Because I rather like it here,” Ezio added.

 

Desmond went bug-eyed. “Whoa. Wait. Stop.” This couldn't be what it looked like. “Are you _coming on_ to me?”

 

Ezio's grin faded. The change that came over his expression was captivating; all morning long and over parts of the midday, he'd strutted around with a smug air, as if the constant flirting with the women at the market had somehow changed him from a 33-year-old Assassin into a hormonally challenged teenager. It had been amusing to watch, when there weren't any actual targets for him to apply his charm to.

 

The man looking at Desmond now was older, colder, set apart. This was the man who had witnessed his brothers and father hanging, who had come into the Assassin order at the age of 17 and learned about his heritage not through guidance and wise teachings, but through murder, deceit and loss.

 

Ezio said, “I think so.”

 

He _thought so_? Incredulous, Desmond gaped at him. Ezio was _thinking_ about coming on to him? Was every one of his male ancestors gay, or bisexual, or whatever the politically correct term was, or would be?

 

Maybe that explained the constant touching, then.

 

But even if Ezio was gay, or bisexual – although Desmond hadn't seen him flirt with any men at the market – there was another, far more vital fact to consider. It was, in fact, the most important one, aside from the whole deal where Ezio didn't even seem to care whether or not _Desmond_ was interested in men.

 

“We are _related_.”

 

“We are all related, somehow. In our case, we are _divided_. There are centuries, between us.” Ezio lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I find you attractive. I would like to kiss you. What harm is there in that? If it bothers you, I will stop.”

 

“I don't even,” Desmond began. He fell silent. Tried again. “I'm. I.”

 

Ezio leaned in more. “Maybe this will help you decide.”

 

Ezio's beard tickled the skin around Desmond's mouth. His lips were warm, soft, the kiss chaste: nothing more than a brush of heat. Desmond's mind was completely, utterly blank. His senses went into overdrive, cataloging the texture of Ezio's lips, the scent of him, the way Ezio's eyes were open, and remained open for the duration of that simple contact.

 

Ezio's hands, after hovering between them for a moment, settled on his shoulders, as lightly as his lips had settled on Desmond's mouth. He pulled away slowly. “No?”

 

Desmond said, “Yes. No. I don't -” He was babbling. He was _straight_. Or had been. Or would be. Maybe – because there was evidence to the contrary, now. Desmond swallowed dryly. He had liked that. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes: 
> 
> \- there is no historical evidence, to my knowledge, that Leonardo da Vinci owned a house or rented accomodations in Florence.  
> \- by god, there will be a sex scene soon. I need one.  
> \- I'm done with the Desmond-whumping, for now. The guy does deserve a break from injuries.  
> \- Yes, Ezio coming on to him happens fast. Very fast. More details as to _why_ will follow in chapter 12.
> 
> A note on the "Apple Translation Program": this is me being lazy. But it is also me avoiding something I can't stand. If there is one thing I hate, it's when authors use or abuse foreign languages. A word here and there, if an explanation is given, is fine. Some things cannot be translated, sometimes, such as the names of places. But nothing breaks me out of the reading flow more than having to google foreign phrases every other paragraph, or skipping back and forth between said foreign phrase and the notes/end of the story, in case the author even bothered to give a translation. So, yeah. Desmond now officially speaks Arabic and Italian. Because I say so.
> 
> Finally, a big thanks to everyone who's left comments. Work is eating me alive, at the moment, so much so that I'm happy to be posting stuff at all; I WILL respond to everyone, once I have some room to breathe. :)


	12. TWELVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some sex. And some plot!

_**Chapter TWELVE** _

 

\- - -

**Florence, April 8 th, 1492**

**\- - -**

 

Desmond experienced a moment where time stood still, even the dust motes caught like pale insects in amber in the rays of afternoon sunlight. He was rooted to the spot, staring transfixed at the man in front of him, his mind and body split on two distinct levels of awareness. Arousal streamed through him in waves, warring with ingrained societal standards, two opposing forces trying to gain the upper hand.

 

Ezio was male – clearly; that _beard_ – and a relative.

 

It was wrong. He shouldn't want this.

 

But he did.

 

It was stupid, a romance novel cliché, but apt: the realization how attractive Ezio was hit Desmond like a fist between the eyes. He was tall and broad-shouldered and solid, with large hands, scarred; he smelled of leather, metal and musk, clean sweat; he was undeniably _male._ Ezio was all the things Desmond had never perceived as attractive before, had never looked for in another person.

 

Now he was seeing them.

 

Now he imagined what it would feel like, to match the strength coiled in Ezio's body against his. To submit to that – or have Ezio submit to him. To peel him out of those many layers of cloth, leather and metal, to learn if the similarities were only present in their faces, or continued with their bodies, and it wasn't just curiosity woken by an unexpected kiss, but want, sharp and visceral, that left Desmond's reservation crumbling in its wake.

 

He sagged back against the edge of the table, floored, confused, more than just a little disconcerted. That he didn't seem to give a damn about the fact that they were related was almost as bad as Ezio's assumption that he _wouldn't_ , as if Ezio had somehow known, or at least guessed at it.

 

“I hate you guys,” Desmond muttered. He felt drained again. “Every time I end up with one of you, you toss my life upside down like its nothing. First Altaїr, and now you.”

 

Ezio took the halfhearted accusation without protest. His smile was enigmatic, knowing, without rancor, as if he had an exact idea what thoughts had just gone through Desmond's mind. He probably did. At one point in time, he must have gone through the same process, finding out he was attracted to men despite or _in spite_ of the norms and rules imposed by upbringing and society. Just like Altaїr, really.

 

Maybe the gay thing did run in the bloodline.

 

Ezio slid a hand to the back of Desmond's neck. “I may die tomorrow, in battle, or of illness. I take my pleasures where I can, when I can. Everything is permitted. My life is complicated enough already.”

 

That was one way to interpret the Creed. As flattering as it was that Ezio considered him a pleasure, it wasn't what Desmond had been hoping to hear. He fidgeted, uncomfortably aware of the warmth of Ezio's palm, the heat still coursing through him, the lust that had boiled down to simmering. He wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd been hoping to hear. An explanation, maybe, wise words. Something to make sense of it all. His ancestors had a penchant for rearranging the way Desmond looked at the world, and he ended up fumbling around in the dark in their wake, trying to keep up.

 

“Come here.” Ezio's smile was softening. He stepped even closer, nestling himself between Desmond's thighs, his gaze dark and intent. Cupping Desmond's jaw in both hands, he brushed their lips together again, like he had before. “You think too much.”

 

Desmond's faint protest – that he often didn't think _enough_ \- was cut short. Ezio kissed him, a slow, tender invasion, careful, as if Desmond was made from spun glass. It was easy to give in to that. Ezio tasted of the wine he'd had with their meal, sweet, with a note of muscat. He nipped at Desmond's lips, traced them with the tip of his tongue; Ezio had _skill_ , and patience, and was tilting Desmond's head the way he wanted it, taking lead.

 

That was fine, and who was he kidding? He wanted this. Desmond shut his eyes, concentrating on the taste, the feel, the way their bodies fit together. He responded with an eagerness that embarrassed him, yet he couldn't curb it. He hadn't had sex in nearly two decades, had barely paid attention to the occasional morning erections when they happened, too caught up in his training. Now, Ezio taking his mouth as if he owned it, he felt as if his skin was too tight, too hot, anticipation boiling just under the surface.

 

Ezio dropped his hands to Desmond's hips, tugging the shirt out of his pants, fingertips sliding over the small of Desmond's back and leaving goosebumps in the wake of their path up his spine. The touch was light, _too_ light – it tickled, and then it didn't. Desmond shivered, hating the sensation yet craving more of it at the same time, squirming in the circle of Ezio's arms.

 

Ezio stopped kissing him just long enough to pull the shirt up over his head. The resulting rush of air caused Desmond to shiver again, leaving him feeling as though he was running a fever. Ezio was smiling broadly, his gaze taking a slow tour of the revealed skin.

 

Desmond felt a little self-conscious under that avid gaze. He'd never been looked at like he was the main dish on someone's banquet. “Like what you see?”

 

The shirt landed somewhere behind him, flung without care. Ezio ran the backs of his fingers up Desmond's front, through the sparse growth of hair on his chest, over a nipple. “Very much.”

 

Desmond jerked, grabbing for a hold on Ezio's waist. _Fuck_.

 

Ezio teased him with a fingernail. “And you like this, hm?”

 

Desmond clenched his jaw, looking down to watch. Liked it? He was feeling that all the way down into his cock. Ezio pinched him gently, rolling the sensitive nub of flesh between two fingers, until Desmond made a sound somewhere between whine and moan, arching to give him more room.

 

“Lie back,” Ezio urged. “I want -”

 

“God,” Desmond pressed out between clenched teeth, “don't stop -”

 

Ezio stopped. His palms curved over Desmond's ass, grabbed a firm hold here, and lifted. One staggering step, two, the edge of the table digging into the back of Desmond's thighs, and the world tilted, the map, paintbrushes, pencils, whatever else was on the table cool and bumpy against his back.

 

He stared up at Ezio, momentarily speechless. That had been unexpected, and _such_ a turn-on. He'd never known he liked being manhandled – in this context, at least. Usually when someone started tossing him around, Desmond started stabbing them, and he considered that a healthy, natural reaction.

 

“Mm,” Ezio said, looking at him with hard, glittering eyes, “that's a nice sight.” He leaned down, his lips ghosting over skin. “I've been thinking about having you like this all day.”

 

Desmond's breath came in short, stunted gasps, feeling the path those lips were taking as though fire was wandering over his chest. That Ezio had been planning this, that this wasn't just a spur of the moment decision, was an ego boost, reassuring. “Yeah?”

 

“Yes,” Ezio murmured. He stroked up Desmond's sides, firm enough not to tickle. “Now, let me enjoy you.”

 

Warm, wet lips brushed over already sensitized skin. Desmond's spine felt as though it was liquefying more and more with every touch, every nip and lick. Ezio nosed through his chest hair, thumbs rubbing along the grooves of his hip bones, taking Desmond's nipple between his teeth and stroking the tip of his tongue over it.

 

Desmond's mouth fell open in wordless, heartfelt appreciation. That felt so good. He hadn't expected it to, not even after Ezio had already proven him wrong with just his fingers; Desmond was sensitive there, but he hadn't known just now much, or had forgotten it, and Ezio's hands were mapping the plane of his belly, stroking along the arrow-trail of hair to his waistband.

 

Then _lower_ , outlining the tight front and the shape of Desmond's cock underneath.

 

His hips lifted into that touch, seeking friction; he wanted more, and he wanted it now, but Ezio took his time, was leaving a quickly cooling trail of moisture across Desmond's chest, to treat his other nipple to the same erotic teasing, his hands busy on buttons and drawstrings between them.

 

“Tease.” Desmond arched under a sharper nip, hissing. Even that sliver of pain felt good.

 

Ezio's answer was an indulgent chuckle. “And you respond so nicely.” He leaned on one elbow, drawing circles just below Desmond's bellybutton. “So eager.”

 

Desmond had no answer, only another slow arch of spine. That hand was so close to where he wanted it most. Anyone would be eager, made nearly mindless with want like this, after such a long time.

 

“Make me come,” he pleaded.

 

Ezio kissed the center of his chest. “I will.” He worked his palms down Desmond's sides again, into his pants, sliding them down.

 

The release of pressure was sweet relieve.

 

Finally, a warm, broad palm instead of cloth, strong fingers wrapping around his shaft. Desmond's head plunked against the table. His hips jerked up, the tip of his cock brushing against Ezio's front, the drag of cloth almost painful. He shuddered, moaned. Ezio stroked him from root to tip, a slow caress, and nipped at his chest again, ache followed by a luxuriously wet suckle on a tender-sore nipple.

 

Desmond felt flushed all over, awareness narrowing down to that hand, to Ezio's mouth and the way Ezio twisted his wrist just _right_ on every upward stroke, the fantastic feeling of release coiling in the base of his spine, a knot of heat and tension curled in upon itself.

 

He'd been dancing on the threshold of release for too long already for it to last. Desmond's field of vision rapidly began to dim around the edges. He reached down shakily and threaded his fingers through Ezio's hair, trying to warn him, because it probably wasn't polite to spurt all over a man's front after only knowing him for three days. “I'm gonna -”

 

Ezio licked down the center of his body, moving out of reach. Lips followed fingers on the next downward stroke of palm, the rough-wet drag of tongue against the underside of Desmond's cock, the heat of Ezio's mouth a shock to already singing nerves, and then Ezio made it worse, or better, and _hummed_.

 

The vibrations of that hum, the wetness, the suction sent Desmond tumbling over the edge with a shout without warning. He blacked out, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation, the mind-numbing force of orgasm, the sweet give of tension afterward, hot and cold and shivery.

 

When he came back to, heart racing, short of breath, gloriously blank of thought, the aftershocks prickling along his limbs, his groin, his cock, Ezio was leaning over him. He looked smug again, a flush heating his cheeks, and his mouth – god. Desmond had just come in Ezio's mouth, and by the looks of it Ezio had _liked_ it, his lips swollen just so, reddened, shiny with spit.

 

Desmond could barely hold a straight thought, post-orgasm lethargy making his motions uncoordinated and clumsy as he held his arms open. He felt as though he'd run a marathon, that bone-deep burn of muscle and the lingering glow of satisfaction. “C'mere.”

 

Ezio laughed under his breath, watching him with a fond expression. “How long has it been?” He stroked along Desmond's thighs, the touch soothing now instead of arousing, yet still intimate. “You _fainted_.”

 

“Haven't.” Desmond made grabby hands and hooked his ankles around Ezio's thighs, making the belated discovery that his pants and boots were gone. “C'mere.”

 

Ezio laughed again. He shrugged out of his outer robes and pulled off the shirt underneath, throwing the clothes over a nearby chair. “ _You_ come here,” he said, taking Desmond's hands and pulling him up, despite the immediate protest. “As nice as seeing you spread out on a table is, it's murder on my back.”

 

He hadn't complained about it while sucking Desmond's brain out through his cock, but that was fine, that was all right: Desmond managed to regain enough motor control to not trip over his own feet the moment Ezio pulled him off the table, but didn't give enough of a damn to not stumble right into him, because Ezio was finally wearing _less_ layers and Desmond had always had a thing for skin.

 

There was a lot of that. Skin. And hair, too, raspy under Desmond's palms, as well as a visual answer to Desmond's curiosity whether or not the similarity of their faces would continue elsewhere. Ezio was better padded than him, bulkier: he was, Desmond suspected, the walking example of what people in his time called a 'hunk'.

 

It was kind of hot. Even the hair.

 

He wrapped his arms around Ezio, attempting to burrow into him. “Nngh. Warm.” Desmond was still in the afterglow, high on the feeling of all the fun chemical stuff released during orgasm. Sex was great. He'd literally forgotten how great it was, and now basked in the rediscovered glory of it. He loved sex. “Where're we goin'?”

 

Ezio was steering them across the room, sounding just this side of impatient, but still with that fond smile. “Bed.”

 

Bed. That meant a horizontal surface. Horizontal was great, too. Desmond knew, on a subliminal level, that he was making a complete fool out of himself, not so much an experienced Assassin but rather an uncoordinated mass of limbs going every which way, but couldn't summon enough of a damn to give one, again. He'd just had sex. With a man. After 16 years of abstinence, he'd had sex, with a man, and he'd _loved_ it.

 

Ezio tipped him into bed. It was a narrow cot, which Leonardo used mainly to give his models something more comfortable than the floor or a chair to pose on. A bit of the rope they had used to immobilize him still dangled from one bedpost. Desmond stretched out, the cool sheets and pillows a welcome balm to skin that felt as though it still wanted to crawl, and yawned.

 

“We're not done yet,” Ezio said, voice low.

 

Desmond looked up. Ezio had pulled off his boots and was shoving his pants down. The sight of Ezio's cock, rising hard and solid from its thatch of wiry hair, the skin darker than the rest of him, brought a bit of reality back to the pleasant haze, a curl of apprehension twisting in Desmond's belly. Ezio was neither abnormally large nor fearsome, but that was a _cock_ , with a pair of round, fuzzy balls underneath, and the visual impact alone served as a reminder that Desmond had no real idea what to do with either. Sure, he knew what _he_ liked – something Ezio had figured out within mere minutes – but would Ezio like the same?

 

“You're thinking too much, again,” Ezio said, lips curving upward. He took himself in hand, giving his cock a long, slow pull, a moan riding on his next exhale. “Touch me.”

 

Desmond reached up slowly. The skin of Ezio's cock was smooth and thin, the gentle ridges of veins giving under the slightest pressure. It felt delicate, vulnerable, and when Desmond curled his fingers into a loose fist, Ezio tossed his head back and groaned gutturally, rocking into the hold.

 

That wasn't so bad. In fact, there was something incredibly erotic about holding Ezio like that, by a part of anatomy a man usually avoided 'handing over' to another man. Emboldened, Desmond tightened his grip experimentally, rubbing his thumb over the head of Ezio's cock, and was rewarded with a shudder. He could do this.

 

Ezio pulled him away by the wrist. “Roll over.”

 

But not _that_. “I'm not sure -”

 

“Like this,” Ezio said, kneeling on the edge of the bed and rolling Desmond over onto his side. “Ssh. Relax.”

 

'Relax' wasn't exactly easy. The bed creaked under the additional weight of a second body, Ezio lying down and spooning up behind him. Desmond was a hair's breadth away from just booking it to the other side of the workshop in a sudden fit of panic. There was no way he was going to let Ezio fuck him up the ass, no matter how much he'd liked the other stuff, or how much he wanted to reciprocate.

 

“ _Ezio_!”

 

Ezio pressed up against Desmond's back. “Just,” he breathed, “like this,” and ran his hand down his side onto his hip, holding him steady. The tip of his cock slipped against the back of Desmond's thighs, then between them. Ezio growled, licked along Desmond's shoulder and pulled him close, settling his arm around his middle. “Just.” He thrust against Desmond's ass, the sharp slap of skin against skin punctuated by another loud groan. “Haa. Yes.”

 

“Holy shit,” Desmond said, weakly.

 

There was barely any moisture, nothing to ease the slide of Ezio's cock between his thighs, along the curve of his ass. Ezio undulated against him fluidly, fast, pushing against him hard enough to roll him half onto his belly, the tip of Ezio's cock nudging into his balls from behind. Desmond felt his cheeks flame. It wasn't fucking, but they might as well have been. That thing about liking a little bit of manhandling in this particular context was rearing its head again, drowning his flight response in another unexpected surge of arousal.

 

It was filthy, _hot_. He was half-hard again, and Ezio was moving as though connected to an electric current, gasping against his back – stiffening, dragging him abruptly closer, his rhythm stuttering and failing.

 

Ezio's frantic rutting slowed to a stop. He lay half on top of Desmond, a heavy, sweaty weight, tense muscles relaxing into sprawled contentment. “Not bad,” he said, sounding out of breath, but _happy_ , satisfied. He stroked Desmond's belly, mouthed at his neck. “Not bad at all.”

 

Slick heat was spreading between Desmond's thighs, viscous and invasive. It took him a moment to realize what, exactly, it was. “Fuck,” he muttered, semi-amused, “I hate wet spots.”

 

Ezio's answer was a soft snore.

 

\- - -

**Route 476, Pennsylvania, United States of America, September 22 nd, 2012**

**\- - -**

 

Lucy felt the heat rise into her cheeks. Desmond's narrative how Ezio had 'persuaded' him had thankfully not included any graphic details, but her mind was busy filling in the blanks, and it vexed her. She thought back to that moment in the Tallahassee safe house, when she'd stood outside the bathroom door, curiosity warring with her sense of privacy and decency; it was _their_ business, not hers.

 

“Motel coming up,” Desmond said, nodding at a rusted sign at the side of the road they were about to drive past. “Want to stop?”

 

“God, yes.” Shaun slapped his laptop shut. “I need to piss, and I'm hungry. What are the chances of sleeping in a real bed tonight?”

 

“Decent.” Desmond pulled his cellphone from a pocket. “I'll tell the others.”

 

Lucy glanced out the windows. They were passing through a rural countryside dominated by vast amounts of nothing. Six hours on the road and it seemed to her as though they'd left civilization behind, not counting the occasional barn or farmstead in the distance, off Route 476, or the cars and trucks they were passing. Pennsylvania wasn't Texas, but all that was missing from the scenery was tumbleweed rolling by, to complete the picture of this absurd road trip they were taking.

 

She was going to welcome the distraction of a break. She had a thousand questions again, as well as a great number of worries, originating mostly in the fact that Juno – an entity who should be dead and dust by now – had actively meddled in Desmond's forward jump through time. Even the ghosts, or remnants, of Those Who Came Before were powerful enough to interfere today.

 

That did not bode well for their immediate plans: the Grand Temple, from what little Desmond had told her about it, had once been a stronghold of the ancient race's power, a vault for all their knowledge and the primary place where information to battle the upcoming apocalypse was stored. If using the global shield device to save the planet from the solar flares meant simultaneously releasing Juno, that also meant she _wasn't_ bound to just the strange time continuum that apparently existed within the Apples of Eden.

 

That was a problem, or was going to be one. Lucy couldn't imagine Juno would take kindly to members of a 'lesser' race bumbling through even the ruins of the Grand Temple. Furthermore, Juno seemed aware of at least part of what Desmond was planning. Otherwise, she probably wouldn't have interfered when Altaїr sent him back. Why did she hate humans so much?

 

And what role was Minerva going to play, if she yet existed? Aside from what Lucy suspected was a fondness for Desmond in particular or the human race as a whole, she had to be at least as powerful as Juno, if she'd been able to direct Desmond to Middle Age Florence, instead of wherever Juno had been meaning to sent him, if her meddling hadn't aimed at outright killing him.

 

Questions, so many questions, and no easy answers in sight.

 

A few minutes later, Desmond pulled the van off the road. SAM'S MOTEL proclaimed itself to be the producer of the 'finest burgers in the state of Pennsylvania', according to the gaudily lit advertisement greeting them at the end of a short driveway lined by old tires, each one holding a piece of shrubbery or the wilted remnants of flowers. Three low-roofed, long buildings were arranged in a semi-circle around the gas station, painted a bright green, with light blue doors and bristly, brown welcome mats.

 

There were no other cars in the parking lot. The whole place looked deserted, sad, despite the obvious lengths the owner had gone to, to make it welcoming. The 'O' of MOTEL was flickering erratically, like a blinking eye.

 

“Looks like we won't have to worry about free rooms,” Desmond said, eying the buildings dubiously. “Place looks dead.”

 

Lucy didn't like it. Busy places provided better cover. If they were the only guests, they would surely be remembered. If anyone was following them, if the Templars had somehow managed to get a tail on them, the two vans were going to stick out like sore thumbs. “Can't we go on?”

 

Desmond left the motor running. “Shaun?”

 

“No more motels almost all the way to Allentown.” Shaun was scrolling through the information on his tablet PC. “Unless you want to drive through the night all the way up there or sleep inside the vans, this is it.”

 

Desmond let the van roll forward. “Looks like we're stuck, then.”

 

They came to a stop at one of the buildings, directly in front of a hand-painted sign with a flower border indicating they were looking at the management office. Desmond pulled the key from the ignition and rolled up his window. Lucy did the same on her side, then hopped out, looking around. At least the place was clean, not counting the odd choice of driveway decoration and the out of place colors.

 

The other van stopped next to theirs. Ezio looked at their surroundings with the same kind of dubious expression Desmond had worn and proclaimed sarcastically, “Ah, America's great backyard.” He slammed his door shut. “I might just develop eye cancer.”

 

Altaїr came around the other side of the van, Rebecca in tow, looking just as enthusiastic as Desmond and Ezio. In fact, he looked worse, overly tired and tense, and was shooting Ezio dark glares.

 

Lucy wondered what Altaïr's take on the relationship between Ezio and Desmond was. No matter how you sliced it or how often you proclaimed _Everything is permitted_ , an Assassin's life was permeated by rules, codes of conduct, morality; granted, Altaїr had blown right past several of the standard rules and codes of conduct of his time and land by taking a male lover – not to mention the whole 'Mariagate' incident – but he was, in effect, Desmond's father. Did he care? Did he view Ezio as a son-in-law?

 

The thought was absurd, but also morbidly amusing.

 

The door to the management office flew open, interrupting Lucy's idle, aimless pondering. The woman who stepped out was young, sun-burnt and very blond. “Hey, folks,” she greeted, smiling widely. “Sorry for the delay, I was kind of busy. My talkshow is on. I'm Sam.”

 

Desmond jerked his chin at the greeting sign at the end of the driveway. “That Sam?”

 

“Oh, no, that's my dad, Sam. I'm Samantha.” Samantha had a missing front tooth and no qualms about smiling even wider. “What can I do for you guys?”

 

“Room for six, and a warm meal, if that's possible.”

 

“Sure thing. Hang on a sec.” Samantha stepped back into the office, returning a moment later with a large set of keys on a metal ring. “Meal's gonna take a bit. I need to heat up the grill and all. We don't get many guests, this time of the year, most people just want to fill up the gas tank.” Her smile turned apologetic. “First round of drinks free on the house, to make up for that. But let me show you the rooms, first.”

 

Samantha seemed friendly enough, even kind of sweet. She chatted ceaselessly while she lead the way to the building across from the office, about the weather, the state of the gas price, the layoffs at the factories in Allentown. Lucy imagined it had to be lonely out here, without guests to look after, only the TV for company.

 

“So where are you guys going?” Samantha asked, unlocking the first in a row of doors.

 

“Up north. Allentown.” Desmond accepted the key she handed him, returning her smile. “Visiting family.”

 

“Wish I could do that.” The second door was unlocked. “Dad's stuck at the hospital right now, that's why I'm sitting here, filling in for him.” Samantha went for the third door, stopped, and looked them over. “I forgot to ask. Anyone bunking together?”

 

“I'll take that room.” Altaїr plucked the key from her fingers and strode past her. A second later, the door slammed behind him.

 

Samantha looked at them with wide eyes. “Something I said?”

 

“Just the long drive. Don't worry about him.” Ezio went through the first door, grinning, and added, “That man has no sense of humor.”

 

“I'll take that room, too.” Desmond glanced at Rebecca, Shaun and Lucy.

 

“We'll take this one,” Shaun said, holding his hand out for the key to the second door.

 

“I'll take the fourth.” Lucy indicated the second-to-last door. If no one was going to force her to 'bunk' with anyone, she'd gladly take a room of her own. She hadn't had any real privacy lately. “Showers in each room?”

 

“Of course.” Samantha unlocked the fourth door for her and gave her the key. “Just changed the sheets this morning, too, and put in fresh towels.” She smiled her gap-toothed smile. “I'll start the grill. Hope you guys don't want anything fancy, though, I'm not much of a chef.”

 

“Burgers will be fine.” Desmond was twirling the key ring around a finger.

 

“Great.” Samantha pointed at the third building. “Kitchen's in there. Dining room, too. Give me half an hour to get things going.”

 

Lucy went into her room. It was small, with a moderately sized bed and threadbare carpet, but clean. There was a single dresser, a cheap TV on a table in the corner, another table with an armchair by the window. A flower motif dominated the wallpaper and the curtains. Opening the narrow door in the back, Lucy found a tiny bathroom, just large enough to hold a shower, a sink and a toilet.

 

She toed off her boots and socks. It wasn't the Ritz, but after days of sleeping in airplane seats, not counting their short stint at the Tallahassee safe house, she was glad for a bed to stretch out on. Hopefully the walls were thick enough to prevent her from hearing it if Altaїr snored, or Ezio and Desmond decided to get 'creative', later.

 

She'd barely settled down on the bed when she heard a car pull into the parking lot, the crunch of tires over gravel. Probably just another traveler, but Lucy held still to listen, nevertheless. A car door slammed – damn, those walls really weren't as thick as she'd hoped – and the sound of footsteps followed.

 

Lucy frowned. It didn't sound as though they were headed for the gas station.

 

“Miles!” someone shouted, a male, rough voice.

 

Lucy was already jamming her feet back into her boots, all thoughts about a relaxing evening in bed gone, replaced by a sense of urgency and alarm. She knew that voice.

 

She opened her door, just enough to peek outside.

 

The first thing she saw was a black Jeep, parked perpendicular behind the two vans, a big, clunky thing built for off-road driving. Then she saw the gun, held casually in a scarred, broad hand, pointed toward the ground. The man the hand belonged to stood between the vans, just shy of the porch of the guest building. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an old army jacket over cargo pants and combat boots, sporting a messy, dirt-blond dye job.

 

Lucy pulled the door open and looked to her left. Shaun and Rebecca were hovering cautiously by their door. Desmond, barefoot, stood on the porch as well, but there was no sign of Ezio and the door to Altaïr's room remained shut.

 

“Who're you?” Desmond asked mildly.

 

“Daniel Cross,” Lucy said, before the man in front of the building could answer. She stepped onto the porch, aware that he had a gun while the only thing she had was a small blade tucked into the heel of her boot. “Ex-Assassin. Now a Templar.”

 

Cross gave her a belittling glance. “Ms. Stillmann. How nice to see you're still alive.” He spat on the ground. “Traitor.”

 

Slowly, Lucy made her way past Altaïr's shut door, joining Rebecca and Shaun, careful not to make any sudden motions and hoping the others would do the same. Daniel Cross was dangerous. He was one of the few test subjects who'd survived the Animus Project, at the cost of a very fractured mind prone to random attacks of paranoia and hallucinations, which made him unpredictable to the point where Vidic had once argued in favor of putting him down.

 

She hadn't seen Cross in months, but somehow Lucy wasn't very surprised he was here. He had a reputation for being sent out for the hard cases, the 'irretrievable ones'. Following Desmond's little adventure in Rome and the deaths of at least two dozen security guards there, not to forget the massacre at the Italian Research Facility where the Animus Project had been housed, it was no wonder Cross was here, now. He wasn't quite the armada Lucy had expected the Templars to send after them, but she wasn't going to make the mistake of underestimating him.

 

She'd seen Cross 'work', before. He was vicious and fast.

 

Desmond leaned against the wall, seemingly at ease. “And what do you want?”

 

“World peace.” Cross shrugged, smiling a smile that would have sent little children running. The gun in his right hand remained pointed at the ground. “I'm here to negotiate.”

 

Lucy reached Rebecca and Shaun, who were watching mutely, tense. Rebecca held a small crossbar in one hand, in addition to the hidden blade she wore. She exchanged a fast glance with Lucy, her eyes narrowed. Shaun, still half inside the room, had nothing in the way of a weapon, only a tablet PC.

 

Desmond cocked his head. “I wasn't aware the Templars had anything left to negotiate _with_.”

 

“How did he find us?” Shaun murmured. “We checked the vans. Becca scanned them.”

 

“Twice,” Rebecca whispered.

 

Lucy had a feeling she knew how. She just hoped she was wrong.

 

Yet Cross' next words confirmed her suspicion. He tapped the muzzle of the gun against his thigh, looking Desmond up and down, as if estimating him. His smile was fading. “Well, we do have William.”

 

That was the second time now William Miles had managed to get himself caught. But how? William had been driving up to New York from Tallahassee. After getting caught the first time, he should have been extra cautious.

 

Unless. . .

 

No. William _hated_ the Templars. No matter how little she thought of the senior Miles, Lucy wasn't ready to believe he'd let them catch him on purpose.

 

The thought took root, however. The Templar headquarters were in New York. William had been going to New York. William also knew which route _they_ had been going, as well as their final destination, Turin.

 

Lucy glanced at Desmond. He'd taken the news calmly, hadn't even moved. Was he thinking the same thing she was suspecting?

 

“I see,” Desmond said.

 

Cross jerked a little, as though Desmond's calm acknowledgment took him by surprise. He frowned. “That's all you got to say? We have your dad.”

 

“No,” Desmond said, “you don't.”

 

Altaїr appeared out of nowhere, sliding up behind Cross from the side. Lucy saw the gun come up and shouted a warning, but it was over before it even began. Cross cried out in pain, falling to his knees, the gun dropping from his hand. Altaїr kicked it away. He had a handful of Cross' hair and was using it to wrench the man's head back, baring Cross' throat. Altaïr's free hand came up, poised to strike, bloodied hidden blade aimed at the side of Cross' neck.

 

“You fucking -!” Cross was glaring upward at his assailant. He fell silent abruptly, eyes widening. “Who -”

 

Altaїr bared his teeth. “ _I'm_ his dad.”

 

The blade snapped back into its sheath. The heel of Altaïr's hand slammed into the side of Cross' neck twice, in quick succession. Cross yelled again, tried desperately to fend off the blows, teetering sideways and wheezing. Altaїr gave him a shove, sending him to the ground.

 

Lucy stood motionless, transfixed; she hadn't even _seen_ Altaïr's approach. Next to her, Rebecca was pressing herself against the door jamb, wide-eyed. Shaun, clutching his tablet PCs to his chest, whispered, “Bloody hell.”

 

Altaїr knelt behind Cross. He jammed his knee into Cross' back, rolling him over onto his stomach. There was a small, dark stain on the back of Cross' army jacket, indicating where Altaïr's blade had landed the first hit. Lucy's stomach tightened with queasiness. No wonder Cross had gone down like that, like a puppet whose strings had been cut – that was a spinal wound, right there.

 

Altaїr would know where to aim in order _not_ to kill.

 

Desmond stepped off the porch, making his way over to the pair on the ground. The expression on his face was devoid of emotion, cold. “You can _have_ my father.”

 

The words rang with a sense of finality. Lucy hadn't expected them. Neither had Shaun or Rebecca.

 

“Stop,” Rebecca said, “you can't -”

 

Shaun shoved past Lucy and Rebecca. “Are you _mental_? He's the leader of the Assassin order!”

 

Even Cross was taken by surprise. He stopped scrabbling at the ground, turning his head so he could look up at Desmond. His face was white, a grimace of pain, anger and disbelief. “What the hell are you saying?”

 

“You can have him.” Desmond crouched in front of Cross. “And if your bosses have even an ounce of sense in those brains of theirs, you'll be the last drudge they send after me, Daniel Cross.”

 

Lucy sagged against the wall. She couldn't believe it. Desmond was cutting William Miles loose – was abandoning his own father to the Templars.

 

Shaun stopped at the edge of the porch. “Desmond. That's insane! They'll kill him!”

 

“Or they'll kill _me_ , if I give in to whatever idiotic terms this guy was sent here to negotiate with.” Desmond rose, grabbing Cross by the back of his jacket. Together with Altaїr, he dragged Cross to his feet. “So tell me, Shaun, what should I do? Let the world burn?”

 

Lucy couldn't see Shaun's face, but she saw his shoulders sagging.

 

“Fuck,” Shaun muttered. He turned away, marching past her and Rebecca, back into the room.

 

Rebecca was very pale. She stared at Desmond, shook her head, and followed behind Shaun, pulling the door shut.

 

Desmond glanced at Lucy. “You got any input?”

 

Mutely, she shook her head. She hated William Miles, and if he'd really let himself be caught by the Templars on purpose, for whatever harebrained reason, it was even the right thing to do, but it felt wrong. As soon as the Templars realized their plan hadn't worked, they would cut William loose in their own way – execution, most likely. Imprisonment, at the very least.

 

Altaїr said something in Arabic, a low, growled comment or command. He and Desmond wrestled Cross into the passenger seat of the Jeep, both of them ignoring Cross' insults and curses, his promises that this wouldn't be the end of their acquaintance. Lucy watched, feeling detached. Judging by the way Cross wasn't really moving on his own from the chest down, this _was_ the end of their acquaintance, as well as the end of his career with the Templars. What was the man going to do, roll after them in a wheelchair?

 

Desmond pulled a pair of thin gloves from a pocket, put them on, and retrieved Cross' gun. “We'll be back in a bit.”

 

 _If_ he ever got to sit in a wheelchair. Judging by the expression on Desmond's face, that was less than likely.

 

Altaїr went around to the driver's side. Desmond took the seat behind Cross. A moment later, the Jeep pulled out of the parking lot, turned left, and drove away in the direction they'd come from.

 

Lucy slid down the wall to her butt, tension draining from her. She closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the wall, and breathed, trying to empty her mind and regain her calm. Not for long: a door clapped somewhere to her right and loud music blared across the parking lot.

 

“Food's gonna be ready in a few,” Samantha called cheerfully. She was grinning, glowing, perky, all but hanging onto Ezio's arm. “Hope you're hungry!”

 

So that was where Ezio had been. He must have gone out the rear window of his and Desmond's room, circled around the backs of the buildings to the kitchen Samantha had pointed out earlier, to distract her from the going-ons in the parking lot. Altaїr, too, must have chosen that route, only that instead of to the kitchen, he'd circled around the other side, to come at Cross from behind.

 

“Starving,” Lucy managed. She wasn't hungry at all.

 

Samantha stopped on the porch, looking at her quizzically. “You okay? You look a bit pale.”

 

“I'm fine.” Lucy smiled. “Just a little tired. Long day.”

 

“Aww. Well, hope you'll have a good night's sleep, then.” Samantha whipped around, heading for the management office. “If you guys need anything else, give me a holler!”

 

Ezio leaned against the wall next to Lucy, arms crossed. “What did this man want?”

 

Lucy waited until the door shut behind Samantha. “They have William. Again.”

 

“Ah.”

 

She looked up. “That doesn't bother you?”

 

“Should it?” Ezio was looking out over the parking lot. “He's nothing to me.”

 

“He's Desmond's father,” Lucy pointed out. “They're probably going to kill him.”

 

Ezio sat down on his haunches, elbows on his knees. “Would that truly worry you?”

 

“No,” she admitted. “Still, it feels. . .”

 

“Wrong? So it does. But nothing about this is right.” Ezio shrugged. His gaze hardened. “What leader of Assassins lets himself be caught twice, if it isn't on purpose? I already thought it was strange they managed to get him that first time. And now? Nobody knew where we are going, what road we would take. Only us. And William.”

 

So Ezio, too, thought along those lines. It wasn't surprising. It was a logical conclusion. Lucy remembered a conversation she'd had with Shaun, in Tallahassee. _There are some who are in favor of letting the world burn._ Was William among those people, willing to let it all end if only the Templars burned along with everyone else? If so, it took a desperate mind indeed to side with the very people William rabidly hated. To aid the enemy, so the enemy could stop Desmond. . .

 

Who else was there, to stop Desmond now? With the Apple of Eden in hand, with Ezio _and_ Altaїr at his side, Desmond was an unstoppable force. He'd demonstrated that, in Rome. At the Animus Project facility.

 

Juno could stop him. Maybe. If they didn't find a solution to that end problem, that would certainly stop him, too, in a final way. Lucy believed Desmond's willingness to sacrifice himself for the sake of mankind, the world as it was. That he would rather not, that Desmond wanted to find a way to survive, was only normal.

 

Lucy could stop him. He'd let her live. He'd let her come along – wanted her to come along, even. _There is a part you yet have to play, at the end of the world._ Desmond's own words, and he still hadn't explained to her what, exactly, he meant by them.

 

Ezio rose back to his feet, holding his hand out for her. “Nobody said it would be easy. ”

 

That was such a cliché. Still, it was true enough. This wasn't a movie, where the intrepid hero miraculously managed to save everyone and the world at the same time, made up with estranged girlfriends and mended fractured family bonds along the way. _That_ was a fantasy, _this_ was reality. Sacrifices were inevitable.

 

Lucy took Ezio's hand, letting him pull her to her feet. “Nobody said it would suck this much, either.”

 

\- - -

 

Desmond and Altaїr returned two hours later, in the black Jeep. Lucy watched from a window of the motel's tiny dining room, unenthusiastically chewing on her second, greasy burger and lukewarm fries. There was no sign of Daniel Cross being in the car with them. Considering the length of their absence, they'd probably gone to somewhere reasonably out of the way, to kill him.

 

Samantha, in a fit of overeager hospitality, had cooked enough to feed a small army. Burgers, fries, onion rings, baked potatoes and a wild mix of vegetables piled high on hot plates had waited for them when Lucy, Shaun, Rebecca and Ezio eventually found their way to the dining room.

 

Shaun hadn't said a word. Neither had Rebecca. Both of them sat down to eat, grim-faced, without a comment about the food's greasy quality or the dining room's eye-watering interior decoration, which featured – no surprise there – a continuation of the flower motif found everywhere else.

 

Thankfully, Samantha had left them alone, after making sure they had all they needed. Lucy didn't know whether to find the young woman's obliviousness aggravating or amusing, by now; Samantha had not only not noticed the events taking place in the parking lot, but also didn't pick up on the decidedly soured moods, when she peeked in just after they'd settled down.

 

It was probably better that way, however. None of them needed the aggravation of having to deal with a potential witness.

 

“They're back,” Lucy announced when the Jeep's headlights switched off.

 

“Great,” Shaun said. “Fantastic.”

 

Desmond walked in alone, sans Altaїr. He stopped in the doorway, looking tired and drawn, and leaned against the door jamb, hands shoved into his pockets. After a moment, he said, “If anyone wants to get out, now's your chance. We have two vans, and a Jeep. The keys are in the Jeep. Tomorrow morning, I'm taking one of the vans up north, to Turin. Altaïr's driving the other.” He waited a beat. “With or without all of you.”

 

'All of you' meant Shaun, Rebecca and Lucy. Lucy already knew she was going. She'd come this far, she wasn't going to leave now, no matter how much Desmond's decision to leave William with the Templars had rattled her. “I'm coming.”

 

“Me too,” Rebecca said, after a short pause.

 

Desmond looked at the British researcher. “Shaun?”

 

Shaun pulled his glasses off and dropped them on the Velcro-covered table. He rubbed both hands over his face, shook his head. Groaned. “Yes, for fuck's sake. Yes, I'm coming.” He turned in his chair. “Do you know what you've done?”

 

“I abandoned my father,” Desmond said levelly. “I abandoned an Assassin leader to the Templars. I know what I've done.”

 

Shaun turned back around. He stared at the half-eaten burger on his plate, the soggy fries, and pushed the plate away. “I'm going to sleep,” he announced shortly, rising. “Good night.”

 

Desmond moved away from the door to let him pass.

 

“He'll get over it,” Rebecca said, though she sounded worried. She rose as well. “I'm sorry. I know that wasn't easy.” She made for the door, stopping briefly at Desmond's side. “I didn't think William would get caught again.”

 

“Yeah,” Desmond said, roughly, “me neither.”

 

Rebecca squeezed his shoulder. “See you tomorrow morning.”

 

Neither Rebecca nor Shaun seemed to think what Lucy and Ezio were thinking: that William had let himself get caught on purpose. Lucy hadn't mentioned it, unwilling to bring up the topic because she knew Rebecca would only see it as an attempt on her part to undermine the Assassins. Their relationship might have relaxed to the point where Rebecca wasn't threatening Lucy anymore, but Lucy still caught the other woman watching her suspiciously now and then.

 

When Rebecca was gone from the diner, Desmond fell into the chair next to Ezio's. The fluorescent overhead lights made him look sickly and older than he was. Ezio, who had remained silent up to now, put a hand on the back of Desmond's neck.

 

“What did you do with Cross?” Lucy asked.

 

Desmond buried his face in his hands. His voice came out muffled. “He's dead. Left him in one of those barns we passed, earlier.”

 

“And William, did you. . .?”

 

“Talked to him, on Cross' cellphone.” Desmond dropped his hands. Without much interest, he picked one of the fries from Shaun's abandoned plate. “I really don't want to talk about that. It wasn't pretty. None of it.”

 

She felt protective toward him, again. Days ago, before Lucy made up her mind to join Desmond on his quest to save the world, she'd considered playing father against son, William against Desmond, to gain leverage, an advantage. In a rather ironic twist of fate, William had done it _for_ her, driving the final wedge between himself and Desmond in a way that promised no reconciliation.

 

Lucy had gained no advantage from the act, felt no satisfaction. Not with what she knew now, about Desmond's past, his questionable 'luck' that landed him with father figures who, in her opinion, didn't deserve the denomination.

 

This time, though, Desmond had turned the tables. This time, _he_ had abandoned one of them.

 

\- - -

**Route 476, Pennsylvania, United States of America, September 23 rd, 2012**

**\- - -**

 

Everyone was in a strange mood, the next morning. Samantha cooked them breakfast, scrambled eggs, toast, copious amounts of coffee, oblivious to the iron silence that reigned at the two tables in the diner. Lucy, sitting between Shaun and Rebecca, felt as though everyone was walking on eggshells – everyone, with the exception of Altaїr, who sat with his nose buried in a newspaper.

 

“We'll leave in an hour or so,” Desmond announced, finishing the last bite of toast. He pulled a thick wad of green bills from a pocket, grabbed his coffee cup, and rose. “Altaïr's driving one van. I'll be driving the other. Mix it up as you see fit.”

 

He went into the kitchen, where Samantha was banging pots and pans and humming along to a song on the radio, ostensibly to settle the bill. Surreptitiously, Lucy glanced around. No one had risen. Shaun looked like he hadn't slept at all, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed, dark rings under them. Rebecca had emerged from their shared room with the headphones firmly in place and hadn't taken them off, since, the lazy beats of the music she was listening to clashing badly with the chipper song playing on Samantha's radio.

 

Altaїr folded the newspaper in half, then folded it again, and slapped it on the table. Loudly.

 

Everyone jumped, even Lucy, even though she'd seen it coming. Rebecca pulled her earphones off.

 

“William Miles is a traitor,” Altaїr said, calmly. “He deserted us. It doesn't matter why. He deserted the Assassins, and the cause you're all here for. He risked the fate of the world on a gamble, and William _knows_ what we're up against. He is willing to let everyone, each one of you and millions of others, burn, to see the Templars fall.”

 

He drained his coffee cup in a single swallow and set it back down carefully, his fingertips resting on the rim. “In my eyes, that makes him worth less than dirt. Now, you can either sit here and bemoan that he left, or you can start thinking about what _else_ he might have told the Templars. He led this man, this Daniel Cross, straight to this parking lot. Armed. Cross could have shot any of you, including myself, the second you opened the door. Think about _that_.”

 

As far as pep talks went, Lucy had heard better ones. Altaïr's words had the desired result, however; Shaun rubbed a palm over his brow, pinched the bridge of his nose. He blinked hard, as if trying to wake up with a will. “All right. Try this one for size: even if Cross knew the route we were taking, he found us awfully quickly.”

 

“I scanned the vans for bugs,” Rebecca protested. “Twice. Remember?”

 

“Yes, but what about everything else? There's no way William could have known _which_ vans we were taking.” Shaun sighed, flopping back into his chair. “Unless he orchestrated that. Christ.” He looked worried suddenly. “What if there are other Assassins in on this? I'm not sure I'm up to fighting the Templars _and_ the entire American Assassin order.”

 

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Ezio cautioned. “Start small. Small _er_. William wouldn't have needed anyone's help to get himself caught, or to plant something. He had plenty of opportunities on the plane.”

 

“I'll scan the vans again.” Rebecca rose. “And 'everything else'.”

 

Lucy smiled weakly. “If you find something in my clothes, please believe me when I tell you I didn't put it there.” She didn't think William had ever come near enough to her or her things to plant something, but she just couldn't be sure. “My duffel's sitting on the bed in my room. Everything else I own, I wear.”

 

Rebecca looked at her long and hard. “I'll give you the benefit of a doubt,” she said, finally. “I'll start with my own stuff. William sat next to me on that first trip.”

 

Shaun pulled out one of his many tablet PCs. “Route 81 is the fastest way to get us into the Black Creek region, once we're past Allentown. I'll start working on finding us alternative routes, just in case. Might take a while, though, there aren't that many good maps of the area that I could find online.”

 

Ezio gave him a droll look. “Have you tried a road atlas?”

 

Altaїr crooked a finger at Lucy. Tense, she followed him into a corner of the diner, out of earshot. So far, she'd avoided spending any more time in Altaïr's company than she had to, easily done since he seemed to prefer to be on his own. The little pep talk he'd just given them were the most words Lucy had heard him speak since laying eyes on him.

 

Altaїr began their conversation with: “I don't trust you.”

 

Lucy groaned under her breath. “Join Ezio's club. He doesn't trust me, either.” More truthfully, the last thing Ezio had said in that regard was that he couldn't stand her, but she wasn't going to start nitpicking now. “I don't want to see the world burn. That's why I'm here. If you're looking for an ulterior motive, there isn't one.”

 

He didn't look convinced. “So you say.”

 

Altaїr had a way of staring at people Lucy found unnerving. It was the eyes, that unnatural amber, flecked with gold, more animal eyes than human. Desmond had likened it to looking at a predator about to launch itself at prey, and the comparison wasn't far off. “Use your Eagle Vision, then. See for yourself that I'm not an enemy.”

 

“I have.”

 

He had? Intense curiosity took a hold of Lucy. “What's my color?”

 

Altaїr's lips drew into a crooked smile. He lifted a finger to mouth, signaling for silence, and leaned forward into her space. “You're gold,” he said softly. “Bright gold.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took an age to finish this chapter, mostly because work was pretty much eating up all my time. Apologies for that! Also, woot: broke the 100k word mark.
> 
> Before I forget it... Desmond isn't telling Lucy *every detail* of this ( or however many may come ) sex scenes. I had the choice of either letting everything fade to black where he would cut off narrating, or to keep going: I chose to keep going.


	13. THIRTEEN

_**Chapter THIRTEEN** _

 

\- - -

**Route 476, Pennsylvania, United States of America, September 23 rd, 2012**

**\- - -**

 

The glow of satisfaction, vindication – gold, the color of trusted people, important people – spread through Lucy like a warm drink. It overruled her initial reaction, her uneasiness at Altaïr's invasion of her private space, letting her forget for a moment that not 30 seconds earlier he'd told her he didn't trust her. What did it matter what he _said_ , when what he _saw_ was much more important?

 

“Don't let it get to your head,” Altaїr warned, watching her shrewdly. “It doesn't make me any less suspicious of you.”

 

The obvious juxtaposition, the conflict in his words, didn't bother her. All along, Desmond had been dropping hints that she was important, that there was a part she had yet to play. He hadn't told her where, when, or how, and for a while she'd suspected him of attempting to string her along, but now Altaїr was saying the same.

 

They needed her for something. Whatever it was, it was important enough for Ezio and Altaїr to stand her presence, even if they both made no secret of their distrust, and in Ezio's case, his dislike of her. It was enough to leave her alive, when killing her would have been the easier, safer, _saner_ choice.

 

Lucy inched closer to him. She wanted to know. She _had_ to know. Maybe Desmond really hadn't meant to string her along; Lucy would have accompanied him even without the obvious hints, because she truly didn't want to see the world burn or Juno released.

 

Still, what reason was there, to tell her something like this, if there wasn't a grain of truth to it? Lucy knew no great Templar secrets. She hadn't been high up in the ranks. If it was Templar secrets Desmond was after, he might as well have kidnapped Vidic, who had been way up higher the chain of command than Lucy. And so far, Desmond seemed to have no problems going through with his plans without detailed insight into the machinations and plans of the enemy.

 

It was something else, it had to be. “What do you need me for? Why am I important?”

 

Altaїr tilted his head. He was watching her closely, still smiling. “Desmond hasn't told you.”

 

“No.”

 

“You are in the Apple.”

 

Lucy hadn't expected to hear that. She drew back. “I'm what?”

 

Altaїr regarded her with a widening smile, as if her confusion amused him. “The Apple. I know Desmond has been telling you about Masyaf, about Florence. The past. You were shown to both of us, in the visions.”

 

He could only be talking about the visions concerning the end of the world, the ancient prophesy that the catastrophe ending the reign of Those Who Came Before would occur again. Desmond had described the horrible images in detail, several times, yet he had never mentioned _her_ in them, only Ezio in his as of yet unexplained role as the 'Prophet'.

 

Lucy didn't understand. Her initial excitement was fading, the elevation swiftly replaced by a sense of misgiving and suspicion. “But what _part_ do I play?”

 

“Who knows?” Altaїr lifted one shoulder. “If Desmond told you even a tenth of what happened in Masyaf and afterward, you should know that the Apple of Eden shows its wielders much, while saying nothing at all. It is not a book, laying open all its secrets.” He sighed heavily, expression turning somber. “And each look into the Apple comes with a price.”

 

Obviously, there was a price: Maria had paid it, and Malik. Desmond, too. They all had their lives changed because of it. In a more generous mood, Lucy might even have agreed that Altaїr had paid as well, for his attempt to change the future, but she wasn't feeling generous now, and not toward Altaїr in general.

 

Lucy focused on the other thing he had said, instead. After Masyaf? After Masyaf came Florence: Desmond meeting Ezio under unforeseen circumstances, thanks to Juno's meddling, followed by what Lucy had guessed, up to now, an adventure to retrieve the Apple of Eden from the thieving monk, Savonarola.

 

None of that had anything to do with her. How could it? She hadn't been there, neither in Masyaf nor in Florence. She stared at Altaїr, trying to make sense of it all. They had seen her in the imagery the Apple of Eden dispersed to all who dared to look; they were assuming she was important. “So you're. . .taking me along, but you don't know _why_?”

 

Altaїr nodded. “Not yet. I suspect it has something to do with the Temple.”

 

Disappointment flooded Lucy, along with more confusion, more questions. She knew nothing about the Grand Temple. Up until a few days ago, she hadn't even known there _was_ a Grand Temple. Out of the six of them, she had the least information about anything, partially because Desmond and the others had kept her in the dark deliberately.

 

“Time will tell,” Altaїr said, turning away. “It always does.”

 

Cryptic words, none of which made Lucy feel any better. She had been hoping for answers. _An_ answer, to Desmond's hints about her role. Watching Altaїr return to the table and his newspaper, she felt a surge of resentment so strong it made her clench her hands into fists, her nails digging painfully into her palms.

 

That smug bastard.

 

He had started it. If Altaїr hadn't pulled Desmond into the past, none of this would have happened, and Lucy wouldn't be standing here like an idiot.

 

And Desmond, too, could have just told her the truth – that he didn't know why Lucy was important. She couldn't help feeling resentful toward him, as well. He'd been upfront about everything else, toward her, why not this?

 

He _had_ been stringing her along, and the worst part was that he didn't even seem to know what for.

 

\- - -

 

They set out into a gray, overcast morning, two hours later. Samantha stood outside the motel office, waving good-bye, blond hair fluttering in the stiff, cool breeze. For a little something extra, she'd made them a batch of sandwiches and packed up several large bottles of soft drinks, to tide them over until they reached their next stop on the road. She had also found Shaun a road atlas, old and used, handing it over with a grin and the pointed remark that not everything was available online.

 

Shaun, back in his spot in the rear of the van, was still grumbling about that while he leafed through the large pages of the atlas and fed information into one of his laptops.

 

Lucy ignored his muttering and the sporadic bursts of fast typing. She'd been tempted to ride in the other van, out of lingering resentment, but between Altaїr and Desmond, she knew with whom she'd rather be cooped up for several long hours.

 

Besides, the mood in the other van was likely to be charged: Rebecca found the tracking device William must have planted on the flight from Rome back to the United States – in her own headphones. Lucy had never seen the other woman so livid, or heard her swear quite so creatively.

 

Not that the mood in _this_ van was any better.

 

The extent of William's treachery was staggering. At this point, it didn't matter anymore if he'd let himself be caught by the Templars, or if he'd walked into their New York headquarters of his own free will. That he had planted a tracking device was enough proof to show that he didn't trust even his own son, and the fact that he'd split from the group instead of traveling with them was telling. Perhaps getting caught that first time, in Egypt, had really not been William's intention; but a second time?

 

Lucy wondered what William was trying to achieve. Desmond had come to his father's rescue that first time, slaughtering his way through the Rome facility all the way to Alan Rikkin's office. He hadn't negotiated, hadn't given in, hadn't even shown mercy – had just gone in and gotten William out, true to his word that _his_ war with the Templars wouldn't be fought in the shadows. It had been a sound defeat for the Templars and a delay on the Assassins' part, nothing more.

 

It should have been a wake-up call, for William and the Templars _both_. It had certainly been a wake-up call for Lucy, to witness the ruthlessness Desmond displayed, the lengths he was willing to go to in order to get what he wanted.

 

Did William really believe a repeat 'abduction' by the Templars would have ended any other way? For that matter, did the _Templars_ believe that? They were on their way to Turin, to the Great Temple; New York wasn't _that_ far away. If he hadn't made the choice to leave William to his fate, Desmond would have simply turned one of the vans around, gone to New York, and leveled the Templar headquarters to the ground, with the aid of the Apple of Eden, with Altaїr and Ezio. It would have been another delay, nothing more.

 

And now? Now William was a Templar hostage, willing or unwilling. Either in desperation or through a fit of temporary insanity, he had delivered himself into the hands of his sworn enemy.

 

A part of Lucy was greatly amused by the turn of events. William was really the man she'd come to hate: paranoid, self-serving and willing to sacrifice anyone, _everyone_ , including himself and his son, to the war with the Templars.

 

Just as he had sacrificed Lucy.

 

It was nice to be right about something, to have proof of William's short-sightedness, his inadequacy, the obvious disconnect between his delusional ideas about the world and everyone's place in it. She made sure to keep it to herself, however; she kept the grin wanting to escape inside, she did not say out loud, 'I was right! I told you so!'.

 

Her current company would not have appreciated that.

 

Desmond was calm, _too_ calm. He hadn't spoken much over the course of the morning, while they loaded their equipment back into the vans and haggled over leaving behind Cross' black Jeep or not. Even the discovery of the tracking device had only gotten a shrug out of him, as if he wasn't surprised by it. Lucy guessed that by now, Desmond wasn't surprised by much of anything anymore; still, it _had_ to sting, to know that your own, biological father would rather see it all go down in flames than grasp the small chance of salvation they had, through the global shield device in the Grand Temple.

 

That he was in a black mood was understandable. He didn't look as though he was interested in conversation, sitting behind the steering wheel with the kind of glacial calmness Lucy had come to associate with him wanting to be left alone.

 

Too bad. Lucy still had another bone to pick, with him.

 

She waited until SAM'S MOTEL was a distant speck in the rear-view mirror. Bad mood or not, Desmond had better cough up a few answers for her, and this time she wasn't going to let him distract her with fantastic tales about the past and his adventures there. “When were you going to tell me?”

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“That you have no clue what my 'role' is supposed to be.” Lucy kept her eyes on the road, striving for a light, unconcerned tone of voice. She didn't want to let on just how much that little revelation had upset her. “I had a chat with Altaїr. He told me about the visions. That both of you saw me in them.”

 

Desmond showed no reaction she could see, out of the corners of her eyes. Only his hands gave him away, tightening on the steering wheel, the knuckles whitening. “He told you?”

 

“Oh, yes. He also told me that he sees me as gold. 'Bright gold'.” Lucy made a show of examining her fingernails. “That's the color of important people, in Eagle Vision. Isn't it?”

 

“Yes.” Desmond sounded just a little put off.

 

Shaun's typing stopped. Lucy literally felt his curiosity as he started paying attention to their conversation. Had Shaun known about the visions, the ones that included her? Did Rebecca? Lucy wouldn't put it past Desmond to instruct them to keep that to themselves, just as he had instructed them to keep so much else from her. If there was anything he had inherited from Altaїr, it was the capacity for deceit – or at the very least, a tendency to deliberately leave people in the dark about certain things. She either hadn't seen it up to now, or had willfully ignored the signs, but she was sick of it. She was going to have answers, now.

 

“So. I'm important. But you don't know why.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you couldn't have, I don't know, just _told_ me?”

 

“What difference would that have made?”

 

Lucy turned around in her seat to face him, eying him with rising anger. “It would have made a difference to _me_ ,” she said coolly. “You were telling me everything else, down to the part how you and Ezio started fucking, but not this? Why not? Or do you really think I don't have a right to know that I'm part of some ancient prophesy?”

 

Desmond didn't look at her. A muscle in his jaw was jumping, his lips a thin line.

 

“For fuck's sake, answer me!” Lucy snapped. “I had to find out from _Altaїr_ , of all people!” And she still didn't know why he had told her, in the first place. Maybe just to aggravate her. If so, he'd managed, and it would be something Altaїr would do, in her opinion. “Just tell me the truth.”

 

“There _is_ no truth,” Desmond grated out. “The Apple of Eden isn't a deck of tarot cards. It doesn't lay out all the answers.”

 

Altaїr had said as much. Lucy _got_ that part, she really did. “You could have at least mentioned it. Instead, you kept dropping all these hints, all that bullshit about my 'role'. Well, as far as I can see, there is no role! There's just you, stringing me along, and you don't even know why!”

 

Desmond slammed both hands against the steering wheel. “I'm not a Magic 8 Ball!”

 

The van swerved dangerously, drifting over the middle line. Shaun squawked a warning. Lucy grabbed for a hold at the back of her seat, alarmed, but Desmond already had the vehicle back under control, directing them back into their lane.

 

“Look,” Shaun said hurriedly, “I get that you guys want to 'discuss' this, but maybe I should drive?”

 

Desmond's cellphone began to ring. He ignored it. A moment later, Shaun's cellphone rang, and after a long look at Desmond, Shaun answered the call.

 

“Hi. Ezio, hi. We're fine. Yes.” Shaun sounded a little out of breath, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “No, we're fine, really. Just a discussion that got out of hand.” He glanced at the back of Desmond's head, then at Lucy. “Well. They -”

 

Desmond snarled out a long, fast sentence in Italian, loud enough to make Lucy's ears ring and, judging by the inflection and the tone of voice, full of swearwords.

 

Shaun listened to whatever Ezio was saying on the other end, cleared his throat, and ended the call. “Ezio says he loves you, too.”

 

Desmond was taking deep, calming breaths. His gaze was fixed on the road before them. “Gold is also the color of targets.”

 

Lucy decided she hadn't just heard him say that. “Excuse me?”

 

“It indicates importance, nothing more. People, objects, it just means they have importance. _Why_ , that's a whole other can of worms. I saw a _key_ with a gold halo in Masyaf, remember?”

 

She remembered. She also remembered Altaїr telling her not to let the revelation that he saw her as 'bright gold' get to her head.

 

“I saw you in the Apple. I know you're important. Important enough that, 800 years ago, the Apple showed me exactly where to find you -”

 

“. . .what?”

 

“- and important enough that I let Abstergo capture me just so I could get to you.” Desmond glared at her, clearly angry. “Why else would I have allowed them to put me in the Animus? You think I enjoy letting a bunch of megalomaniac assholes root around in my memories, with a fucking _machine_? I was there because _you_ were there, in Italy.”

 

Stunned, Lucy gaped at him.

 

She'd never even thought about that. She _should_ have thought about it, the moment he started telling her about his past, but she hadn't. It was a connection she simply hadn't made. Now, she saw it, clear as day. Other than getting her out, there had been absolutely no other reason to let the Templars get a hold of him, especially if he'd already known they were after him because of his ancestry. It explained the massacre in Italy. It explained why he killed Vidic, who could have told him so much more about the Templar order than Lucy ever could. He hadn't been interested in anyone else, only her.

 

Desmond's expression turned cold and hard. “For all I know, you're either going to help me find a way to activate that fucking shield without grilling myself, or you'll help me find out how to beat Juno, or both. I don't know. Maybe the shield needs your bloody heart, to make it work. Maybe the Temple doors won't open until we drape your intestines all over them. I'm hoping it won't come to that, but _I don't know_.”

 

Lucy didn't know what to say. Blankly, she stared at him, her mind in turmoil.

 

He scoffed. “Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

 

It wasn't. She'd wanted to hear anything but that. For the first time in many days, Lucy felt fear again, icy and sharp, clenching her insides. She felt like she had on the plane, on the flight from Italy to the United States, her future uncertain and the only thing keeping her alive some reason on Desmond's part she hadn't been able to figure out, then.

 

Now she knew the reason. _Maybe the shield needs your bloody heart, to make it work. Maybe the Temple doors won't open until we drape your intestines all over them._ Lucy felt sick. “You'd sacrifice me?”

 

Desmond sneered at her, as if she'd just asked the stupidest question ever. “I'm ready to sacrifice myself, if there is no other way. I just sacrificed my own father. Do you really want an answer to that question?”

 

“No,” she said, numbly.

 

He shot her a challenging look. “Are you going to run? Now that you know?”

 

She swallowed, tasting bile. Her mind screamed 'yes!', but her mouth said, “No.”

 

And she wouldn't. _Couldn't_. Not with what was at stake. Not anymore. The future of the human race: millions dead, burned alive, or enslaved by an ancient, vengeful entity, the ghost of a precursor race? Lucy was no hero. But just like Desmond, she knew her choice – to run, or to stay and do what was necessary, or if needed let it be done _to_ her – was a foregone conclusion.

 

“No,” she repeated, firmer, “I won't. Just. . .no.”

 

Desmond flexed his fingers against the steering wheel. He was calming down, relaxing; as quickly as the anger had come, it vanished now, leaving behind the man Lucy had learned to. . .not trust, but _like_ , over the course of the last few days, even if he continued to make it hard for her to keep liking him.

 

Quietly, tiredly, he asked, “Are you ready to die for the world, Lucy?”

 

The world. That was such an abstract term. Lucy watched the passing landscape, gray as the sky overhead, mulling that over for a minute, because it deserved contemplation. What was the world to her? The world had given her shit; a lifetime of shadow wars, deceit, and knowledge that would have the average human being foaming at the mouth with disbelief. The world had given her William Miles, and years of living on the needle-fine edge between life and death, a traveler between two opposing forces: Assassins and Templars.

 

This wasn't about the world, or her place in it. It was about doing the right thing, regardless of which side of the spectrum – chaos or order – her choice would land her. And in the end, it was about _having_ that choice: to sit back and watch it all unfurl until the end came, or to take part, to influence, to _do_.

 

Altaїr had once likened people to cattle, content to graze, blind and deaf to the forces that moved and shaped the world around them. As arrogant a viewpoint as it was, he was right – and Lucy was no longer contend to let others do with her as they wanted.

 

Ezio had been right, too. She could have just walked away, the moment she no longer agreed with the Assassin cause. Instead, she had delivered herself into the hands of the Templars, trading one form of oppression for another, only she hadn't seen it, at the time.

 

“As long as it is my choice,” she said, finally. “Yes.” She looked at him, really looked at him, willing him to understand. “And it will be _my_ choice.”

 

Desmond nodded. “It will be.”

 

\- - -

 

They drove until dusk, stopping only once at the side of the road for a pee break. At one point they passed a small town, Emmaus, distant lights under heavy rainclouds and the roadside advertisements for a local baseball team, faded from the wear and tear of rain and wind. After a short consultation with the passengers of the van behind theirs, Desmond drove past Emmaus; it wouldn't be too long now until they reached Allentown. From there, they would follow Route 476, past Jim Thorpe, Wilkes Barre, Scranton, until they hit Route 81, and then further northward, out of Pennsylvania, to New York county.

 

And then, somewhere up there in the Black Creek region, Turin, and the Grand Temple.

 

Lucy spent the ride curled up in her seat, watching the slow pass of time in the change of the sky from gray to darker gray and finally the starless, cloud-checkered rise of night. Conversation had been reduced to a minimum; Shaun worked on alternate routes for them to take, should they run into trouble along the way, and Desmond had sunken into a trance, staring ahead at the band of concrete in front of the van.

 

Lucy was glad for the silence. She felt as if she was back on borrowed time. Balancing that ominous sensation was a feeling of tranquility, of finality; she felt as if her entire life had been a tangle of forked paths and trap-doored dead ends all leading to this point.

 

Perhaps she was being dramatic, but what other bombshells were there, that they could drop on her? It couldn't get any worse than 'you might have to die'.

 

They reached Allentown an hour before midnight, just as it started to rain, a light drizzle turning the streetlights into distorted, haloed stalks beyond the van's windows. The city was empty, calm and asleep, an assembly of gray, rain-washed building blocks, unassuming and unimpressive.

 

“We should stop,” Shaun said. He folded his arms over the back of the front seats, between Desmond and Lucy, and coaxed, “Come on, Des. A hotel, or at least a place where we can park for the night. Past Allentown, there's 250 miles of nothing.”

 

“All right,” Desmond sounded more tired than he looked, his voice scratchy from disuse. “Find me something, then.”

 

Lucy roused herself from her curled position against the door, stretching out her legs. The prospect of stopping for the night inevitably brought up recent events: everyone settling down to rest only for Daniel Cross to pop up in the parking lot, herald of bad news. Yet, Shaun was right. They needed sleep.

 

“There's a hotel coming up, off the main street,” Shaun offered after a minute of rapid typing. “Take a left. . .there.” He pointed past Desmond at a street corner. “I'll tell the others.”

 

They pulled up in front of a squat, square building, into a small parking lot fenced in by a low hedge. Lucy eyed the rows upon rows of windows, the number of cars parked in front of the hotel, the lit entrance with its colorful, rain-drenched awning and the yellow HOTEL letters above. “Least there's no flowers.”

 

Desmond snorted lightly. “You noticed that, too?”

 

“It was hard to miss.” She unbuckled her seat belt and got out. She was more tired than she'd thought, the light rain and the cool wind making her shiver.

 

The other van stopped next to theirs. Ezio headed straight for Desmond, without a glance or comment at anyone else; Altaїr leaned against his shut door, looking up at the hotel facade the way Lucy had done, thumbs hooked into his pockets. Rebecca, looking positively dead, yawned hugely and blinked owlishly at their surroundings.

 

What a bunch they were. Lucy felt a twinge of amusement, looking them over. Two men who should have been dead centuries ago, a British researcher, a tech freak, a time traveler, and her: out to save the world, whether the world wanted or deserved saving or not.

 

The sleepy-looking receptionist in the hotel's small lobby, an elderly man in a tidy suit, didn't bat an eyelash at the sight of Desmond and Ezio walking in arm in arm. Room arrangements were quickly made. The hotel offered no room service during the night, but for a small extra fee breakfast would be served at 10 in the morning, in the dining hall, which they were more than welcome to partake in.

 

“If another Mr. Cross pops up,” Rebecca said, through yet another yawn, while they were taking the stairs to the second floor, “I'll brain him with a crescent wrench. Man, I'm so tired.”

 

Lucy herself was dragging her feet and clutching her room's key card. “You get any work done on that tracker?”

 

Rebecca dug a hand into a pocket and pulled out the gadget. It was tiny, barely larger than a watch battery, but thinner. “Standard issue GPS transmitter. You just stuff'em in somewhere and they basically transmit a signal at a programmed interval. Nothing fancy about it.”

 

Desmond took a closer look at the transmitter. “And that's enough to locate us, even in the middle of nowhere?”

 

“You forget Abstergo pretty much owns the major networks, especially in America,” Rebecca pointed out. “They upgraded everything, including the cellphone towers, and it's all hooked into their satellites. You dial into one of their networks, you come too close to one of their towers, bang, if they're looking for you, they know where you are.”

 

“But, not to worry,” Shaun butted in, coming up the stairs behind them, “our cellphones and computers are secure.”

 

“As secure as they can be, at any rate. We're keeping cellphone use to a minimum, even on the encrypted channels,” Rebecca said. She stuffed the transmitter back into her pocket.

 

Lucy looked at said pocket. “Shouldn't we get rid of that thing?”

 

“I deactivated it.” Rebecca looked smug. “All it took was a few whacks with a hammer.”

 

“Ah.” Shaun smirked. “And I was wondering why that thing is so flat.”

 

Feeling glad she hadn't ridden in the other van, Lucy followed Desmond and Ezio down the hallway. By her estimate, it didn't matter if Rebecca had deactivated the tracker or not; with William in their clutches, the Templars likely already knew where they were going.

 

Something to worry about in the morning, she decided.

 

\- - -

**Allentown, Pennsylvania, United States of America, September 24 th, 2012**

**\- - -**

 

The morning brought a change of seating arrangements. Without much ado, Ezio gathered up laptops, cables, mouses, the road atlas and a bewildered-looking Shaun, and gently but firmly directed both his armful of equipment and its owner to the other van.

 

Ezio returned and pointed at Lucy. Then he pointed at the rear doors.

 

Lucy climbed into the back without protest. Desmond was still inside the hotel, settling the bill. She made herself comfortable, listening with half an ear to Rebecca and Shaun arguing about who was going to ride in the front with Altaїr, who looked actually relieved and headed for the driver's door of the other van with a spring in his step.

 

Ezio took the driver's seat of their van, humming under his breath.

 

For some time now, Lucy had been subconsciously picking up on low-level strain between these two. The clues were subtle, but they were there, mostly in how every time Altaїr and Ezio spent any amount of time in the same space together, one or both of them came away looking either angry or annoyed, or both.

 

She eyed Ezio, gauging his mood. “You're probably going to say it's none of my business, but what is it between you and Altaїr?”

 

“You're right, it's none of your business.” Ezio adjusted his seat. “Let's just say we don't agree, on several matters.”

 

“Desmond matters?” she guessed.

 

“Among others.” He adjusted the rear-view mirror as well, paused, and turned around to look at her. “He was my idol, once. My spiritual mentor, if you want to put it that way. History has a way of white-washing people. Even if they were complete monsters.”

 

That was a loaded statement, and startlingly harsh. Ezio himself was no innocent bystander; his list of victims was long and bloody. “You think he's a monster?”

 

“Perhaps not intentionally, but I think he nearly ruined Desmond, in some aspects,” Ezio said thoughtfully. “It is never easy to find out that your idols are not only human, but also flawed. The Altaїr my father told me about, the Altaїr speaking to me through the pages of his Codex. . .well, these men have little in common with _that_ man.” He inclined his head in the direction of the other van. “ _And_ he has no sense of humor.”

 

Lucy thought Altaїr did have a sense of humor. It just wasn't a sense of humor found anywhere else on the planet; it was the kind of sense of humor others often found very hard to understand, much less very amusing. The rest of Ezio's statement was true enough. Desmond's second childhood in Masyaf had influenced him more than he let on, or was willing to admit to, in her opinion. By now he was more Altaïr's son than he had ever been William's.

 

“To be fair,” Ezio said, “if you take his age into consideration, the things he has seen and done, it is not very surprising he is what he is. That doesn't mean I like it.”

 

Lucy could agree with that point of view. “I don't like it, either.”

 

Desmond opened the passenger door, catching the tail-end. “Don't like what?” He blinked at the sight of Ezio sitting in the driver's seat, looked over his shoulder at the other van, and murmured, “Ooo-kay.”

 

Ezio patted the seat. “Hop in. We were just talking about that world wonder you call your 'dad'.”

 

Desmond winced. He climbed in and pulled the door shut, looking from Ezio to Lucy. “Do I need to do damage control? What has he done, this time?”

 

“He exists,” Ezio said bluntly. He gentled his words with a smile. “I think you should tell her the rest of it.”

 

“The rest of. . .?”

 

“How it all ended.” Starting the van, Ezio drove slowly toward the parking lot exit. “How Altaїr and I came to be here, with you.”

 

Desmond slumped into the seat. “I was going to wait with that until we reach Turin.”

 

His sudden reluctance was telling. So far, Desmond had freely – most of the time – told her about the past, had even seemed to enjoyed it. Perhaps Ezio being in the car with them was the reason; Desmond hadn't talked about Masyaf, either, while Altaїr was within earshot. Some not very flattering truths about Altaїr had come to light, over the course of the story – considering the time and age Ezio came from, there were sure to be skeletons buried in his closet, as well.

 

She caught sight of his expression and knew that wasn't it, though.

 

“You have to understand something, Lucy.” Desmond hooked an arm over the back of his seat, facing her. He looked troubled. “I'm not _deliberately_ setting out to annoy you, or aggravate you.”

 

Lucy looked from him to the back of Ezio's head. Out of sheer habit, reflex, she inwardly braced herself, forcing a shaky smile. “You're about to drop another bombshell on me, aren't you?”

 

“Probably. Maybe.” Desmond's gaze drifted away from her, turned inward. “It's hard to line it all up, sometimes. I spent so much time in Masyaf that I barely remember my _own_ past, in New York. I forget stuff, or mix it up, or,” he sighed, “just ignore that what's a fact for me can be a surprise to others.”

 

“Is it going to be worse than 'we might have to drape your intestines around the Temple doors'?” Lucy couldn't imagine there to be anything worse than that. She didn't quite share Desmond's attitude toward knowing when exactly one's end was approaching; all it did was make her more aware of the time that was left. “Because if it is, I'm not sure I want to know.”

 

“It has nothing to do with the Temple. Well. Maybe not everything, but. . .” Desmond frowned. He turned to Ezio, “Do you remember the exact date? When we set out, to Venice?”

 

“Ah, how can I forget?” Ezio directed the van into the main street. “It was the 10th of April, 1492.” He waggled his eyebrows at Desmond, briefly taking his eyes off the road. “I even remember what we had for breakfast, that morning. And that you were nearly bitten by the nice horse I got you.”

 

Desmond snorted out a laugh. “That thing wasn't a horse! That was a -”

 

\- - -

**Florence, April 10 th, 1492**

**\- - -**

 

“- menace!” Desmond danced out of reach of sharp, long horse teeth. They snapped together an inch from his face.

 

“You must taste good,” Ezio commented. At Desmond's glare, he smiled blindingly, and patted the neck of his own, rather more docile horse. “They can sense their rider's fear, so. . .”

 

“I'm not afraid,” Desmond bit out. He glared at the chestnut brown eying him placidly. “I just don't like being chewed on.”

 

Ezio lifted an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching.

 

Desmond ignored it, focusing on the horse.

 

He _wasn't_ afraid. He just wasn't used to horses of this size. Masyaf horses had been smaller, sturdier, far more useful during long-distance travel through the desert than the Arabian breeds Ezio returned with from the market, an hour ago. These horses were runners, full of temper. At least, _his_ horse had a temper; twice now the damn animal had tried to take a bite out of him.

 

Desmond took a firm hold of the reigns, ignored Ezio's expectant look that clearly said he expected him to either fall off or be bitten, and swung himself up into the saddle. He fit his feet into the stirrups. Those were different, too, from the ones he'd used in Masyaf. The entire saddle was different, smoother, made from oiled, hardened leather and decorative bits of wood and metal. He scooted around until he was comfortable, and the horse neighed, turned its head, probably with the intention to nip at his knee.

 

“I'll bite back,” Desmond threatened. That was going to take some getting used to. The ground looked far away, which was ridiculous, because he'd been scaling mountains and buildings ten times taller than a mere horse.

 

Ezio turned his laugh into a cough, badly hidden behind a gloved fist. “I'd like to see that.”

 

Leonardo, who had been watching with amusement, came over and handed Desmond the satchel with their provisions for the first leg of the journey to Venice. They would make several stops along the road, to rest and to pick up news, as Ezio put it, so food wasn't going to be a problem. Italy wasn't Syria; they were going to ride through populated areas, not the desert.

 

“Thank you.” Desmond secured the satchel to the pommel of his saddle.

 

Leonardo, spots of paint on his hands and sawdust in his beard, smiled up at him. “Save journey.” He stepped back, ruffling through Desmond's horse's mane. “You should give him a name. Something appropriate, something to let him know you appreciate him.”

 

“Menace,” Desmond said promptly, watching the artist with a jaundiced eye. It wasn't fair – he'd tried petting the horse, but had nearly had a finger bitten off. Leonardo must have magic hands.

 

Ezio and Leonardo laughed. Then, the mood sobered. It was time to go. Leonardo stood in the doorway of his workshop, watching them turn their horses around. Ezio looked back over his shoulder, nodded at his friend, and pulled his hood up, urging his horse forward through the archway of the courtyard, into the street outside.

 

Ten minutes into their slow ride northward through Florence, Desmond changed his mind. 'Menace' responded to the lightest pressure of thigh, heel and knees, not at all as recalcitrant he'd feared the horse would be.

 

The presence of the morning crowd on the streets forced them to ride single file. Desmond spent the time watching the people, the sights he hadn't had the time to take in before. He'd been in Florence less than a week, but he liked the city, so different from tranquil, mountain-bound Masyaf; if he made it back to his time and survived what waited for him there, he would come back, to see if the Florence of his time still had the same charm as this one.

 

They emerged into a broader street and headed north, past the Santa Maria del Fiore, the dome-topped cathedral where Ezio had come across – or rather, down on top of – him. Ezio motioned for Desmond to ride next to him, explaining the various churches, piazzas and streets they passed. This bit of green there was the Giardino dei Semplici, where the philosophers gathered to discuss Aristotle and Plato, and this there was the Via San Gallo, famous for its wine merchants, running from the river Arno to Florence's east.

 

By the time the reached the northern quarters of Florence, where the buildings weren't quite so well-kept anymore and the clothes of the pedestrians looked more like farmstead flair than Florentine high fashion, Desmond's head was brimming with names and titbits of random information. Assassins by their very nature needed to keep themselves informed of the political state of the country, region or city they operated in, but Ezio was a veritable fountain of knowledge, with an inclination to share.

 

“We'll stop in Prato, first,” Ezio said. “It is the closest, large city on our route. Unless Savonarola traveled through the countryside, he likely stopped at the same places I plan on stopping. Let's hope he didn't run into any problems.”

 

They hadn't mentioned Savonarola or the Apple of Eden in two days. Desmond had enjoyed the brief respite from worries about the future, thoroughly occupied otherwise and for once not interested in letting himself be distracted. During the days, Leonardo and Ezio both plied him with their curiosity, proffering Codex pages and questions about Masyaf, about Altaїr. They examined Desmond's hidden blade, comparing it to the one Leonardo had built for Ezio. Leonardo's newest invention, a hidden gun, was based off of drawings in Altaïr's Codex, a contraption that Desmond found fascinating, if slightly cumbersome and loud; still, he was impressed: Altaїr had developed a _gun_ , centuries before the weapons officially entered history records.

 

He wondered if Altaїr had ever gotten around to using one himself, or if it had remained idle fancy, a conceptual drawing in the Codex, knowledge taken from the Apple of Eden.

 

In the late afternoons, when Leonardo was out 'painting pasty-faced girls' to earn his money, in the evenings when he left to spend the night in Vinci, with his father, Ezio peeled Desmond out of his clothes and took him to bed. Two days, and already Desmond was wondering why he'd ever hesitated in the first place. It was pleasure unalloyed. It came without a price. It was something for Desmond to take, to have, without having to worry about the consequences, a refreshing and liberating experience.

 

So different from Masyaf, where everything had had meaning, doubled and layered.

 

Ezio was blunt about what he wanted when; he was equally as blunt about telling Desmond that he would rather not have Leonardo know about the turn their acquaintance had taken, to not endanger one of the few friendships Ezio had left.

 

He also cautioned Desmond against mentioning anything to bystanders: Florence was the birthplace and cradle of the Italian Renaissance, and generally more open toward 'alternate' lifestyles, but here, too, prevailed a prejudice against sodomy. The city had even appointed a special magistrate, the Official of the Curfew and the Convents, to combat what church officials preached was a sin.

 

Ezio was less blunt about everything else, obviously enjoying the slowness of their encounters, as if he, too, was taking respite.

 

They hadn't fucked. Not _yet_. By now, Desmond knew he wanted to, just to find out what it was like, and he was certain Ezio would be more than willing to show him.

 

Playtime was over, however. They had a goal to achieve, and while he knew he had to rely on Ezio for almost everything, including the direction they were going and the places they were going to stop at, he wasn't going to be a dead weight.

 

“What sort of problems are we talking about?” Desmond asked.

 

“The usual: highwaymen and thieves. Someone could mistake the Apple of Eden for a piece of treasure and try to steal it, if Savonarola shows it around or uses it.” Ezio sighed. “And there is something else that worries me. Rodrigo Borgia.”

 

Desmond remembered the name. Rodrigo was a member of the powerful Borgia family, originally from Spain, and indirectly responsible for the deaths of Ezio's father and brothers. Ezio had attempted to exact revenge, but the circumstances worked against him at the time and Rodrigo managed to escape.

 

“He was recently elected as pope,” Ezio continued, his expression vividly detailing how distasteful a fact that was. “A Templar Grandmaster, in such a powerful position, can you imagine that? Pah! He sits in the Vatican in Rome like a fat spider, and he casts a _very_ wide net. His spies are everywhere. Worse, he knows about the Pieces of Eden.”

 

Desmond knew about that, too. In detail, Ezio had told him about the Templar vessel to Cyprus, its return, Ezio's first contact with the Apple of Eden and the subsequent struggle over it. How Rodrigo Borgia knew about the Pieces of Eden in the first place was beyond both Desmond's and Ezio's knowledge; at this point, it wasn't important.

 

Desmond had been devastated to learn that Cyprus was once more under Templar control, the Assassin base established there during Altaïr's time as Mentor of the Levantine order destroyed.

 

So much had changed. The question what had happened in Masyaf remained unanswered; Ezio had never set foot there, nor knew anyone who had. It was saddening, to imagine it was possibly gone, or had fallen under Templar control, like Cyprus. It made Desmond wonder what had ultimately happened to Altaїr, to Maria and Malik; it made him wonder how the Templars had achieved so much power in such a relatively short time, and why the Assassins had been diminished to the point where they were now _forced_ to operate in secret.

 

Altaïr's plan for the Levantine order had been to operate in the shadows by _choice_.

 

“Rodrigo knows I had the Apple.” Ezio's look darkened into a frown. “If he learns that it was stolen from me, it will only be a matter of time until he sends someone to retrieve it. All Savonarola needs to do is show that Apple around, or use it, and Rodrigo will know about it.”

 

In Masyaf, the Templars had been a distant threat, present but not _there_. Much of the political upheaval the Holy Land went through, 300 years ago, had passed Desmond by, for the simple reason that Masyaf was out of the way, far removed from Jerusalem, from Acre and Damascus. The most contact he had with anything political was in the council meetings, or when traders or message carriers came to the fortress. His problems in Masyaf had been of a personal, _emotional_ nature.

 

Here, it was the other way around. The political situation, the Templars, were everywhere. Ezio's interest in him, curiosity about Altaїr and the Codex aside, was purely physical; beyond the mutually taken pleasure, there was nothing to _be_ emotionally invested in, for either of them. Desmond planned on keeping it that way. His time in Italy was limited: barring greater catastrophes, the moment he got his hands on Ezio's Apple of Eden, Desmond was going to return to the future.

 

He briefly considered the possibility of Rodrigo Borgia – or anyone – trying to keep the Apple away from him, and came to a very simple truth: “I need that thing. I don't care what you do with it afterward, but I need it first. I'll kill anyone who gets in the way.”

 

Ezio laughed under his breath. “Bloodthirsty, are you?” He didn't look as though he disapproved.

 

“The future of the human race hinges on me getting back to my time, _in time_.” It still sounded ludicrous, to put himself in a position of such importance. He hadn't asked for it, would still, in fact, prefer to never have gotten involved in the first place, but the time to wish for the unattainable was over. “I'll kill _anyone,_ Ezio. Even a pope.”

 

Ezio didn't object. “Everything is permitted. As for this pope though, we may even end up fighting over who gets to kill him, if it comes to it.” He looked around. “Let's step up the pace.”

 

They were riding through the outskirts of Florence. Trees and meadows replaced cobbled streets and artful monuments, and the houses were smaller, less urbane, the roofs thatched instead of shingled, with crooked windows and doors. Before them stretched the sun-dappled road to Prato, and beyond there, the Tuscany countryside, hilly and climbing steadily toward the Apennines mountain range.

 

“Yeah,” Desmond said, giving his horse the heels, “let's.”

 

\- - -

 

They rode through the day. Florence disappeared behind them and with it, most signs of civilization. No, Italy wasn't Syria, but the landscape struck Desmond with the same kind of lasting impression he'd had when gazing out from one of Masyaf's windows that first day, held safely in Altaïr's arm: a sense of vastness, of wild beauty, untouched by industry. Tuscany's flora lent itself to deeply green meadows and warm, brown fields ringed by large-leaved trees, oaks, beeches and chestnuts, trees Desmond hadn't seen in nearly two decades.

 

It wasn't a jungle, but after half a lifetime in the desert, the sight of green everywhere was startling, even as the road they were following was steadily climbing into the Apennines mountains, where the vegetation was sparser, denser, and far more shrubbery-based.

 

First impressions aside, Desmond was starting to enjoy riding this particular breed of horse. They were strong, fast animals, easy to handle; during the first rest, around noon, 'Menace' affectionately bumped his head into Desmond's back, instead of trying to take another bite out of him, as if to give thanks for the chance to run.

 

Ezio watched their antics with amusement. “What do you ride, in the future?”

 

“Cars and bikes and. . .” Desmond trailed off, unsure how to proceed. He left the horse to graze alongside Ezio's and joined the other Assassin on a log at the side of the road.

 

For one, 'cars and bikes' would mean little to Ezio without a detailed explanation; two, Desmond was leery about telling him too much about the future. Altaїr had mentioned several times that there was a danger, that changing too much in the past could inevitably change the future as well; he had married Maria, to prevent just that, and look where that had gotten him.

 

Ezio wasn't Altaїr; Desmond wasn't as invested in Ezio as he had been in Altaїr, but that didn't mean Desmond wished for him to come to ill. According to his own words, Ezio had had little direct contact with the Apple of Eden's 'insides'. Either it didn't interest him, or the Apple hadn't shown him the visions it had given to Altaїr and Desmond. The thing had a questionable mind of its own, at times, just as it seemed to randomly activate for certain people while remaining lifeless and dormant in the hands of others; Desmond himself was among the latter group.

 

He settled for, “Not horses,” and hoped Ezio wasn't going to inquire further into the matter.

 

Ezio didn't. Instead, he looked at Desmond searchingly. “It still seems fantastical.”

 

“What does?”

 

“This. Everything.” Ezio scooted closer on the log, his hand tracing circles on Desmond's back. “We're hunting the Apple of Eden so you might return to your time, only to die there.”

 

“That's a possibility, not a certainty.” Desmond refused to look at it any other way.

 

“Is it?” Ezio looked doubtful. “You told me you still don't know how to prevent the catastrophe, this 'sun flare' that will burn the earth.”

 

“I do know how. The shield. . .”

 

“Let me put it another way, then: you don't know how to _not_ die.”

 

Desmond said nothing, watching the horses graze. Ezio was right. He didn't know how to not die. He only knew he didn't want to die. So far, the only choice he had remained the same it had always been, ever since Altaїr made him look into the Apple: to sit back and watch it all go down in flames, or to sacrifice himself. He had a vague idea what that included and where that shield device was located, nothing more; everything else would be up to him.

 

“I'll do what I have to,” he said. For now, he was going to focus on getting the Apple back from Savonarola, and then he was going to focus on figuring out how to use it to get him back to where he needed to be, where he should have been already, if Juno hadn't interfered. “When I have to.”

 

\- - -

 

By nightfall, they reached Prato. Lying at the foot of Mount Retaia, the city welcomed them with its spread of lights, though a tranquil silence hung over the picturesque houses and the churches. Riding through the south city gates, they were held up by a pair of guards blocking their way.

 

One of them approached, holding up a flickering torch, his other hand resting on the hilt of the sword strapped to his belt. “State your business.”

 

“Just two travelers looking for a warm bed and a meal for the night.” Ezio folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle and smiled winningly. “We come from Florence, and we are on our way to Venice.”

 

The guards let them pass, though not without a caution to mind their own business, and to be on the way as soon as possible, in the morning. Desmond wondered at that show of blatant unfriendliness. The guard's tone of voice had only been a hair's breadth away from insulting. Ezio explained the city of Prato was in a constant state of low-grade warfare with Florence, over commercial and political matters. Technically Prato had been _sold_ to Florence, by Joanna I of Naples, in 1351. Many of Prato's inhabitants, however, refused to see it that way, even over a hundred years later.

 

That, however, did not explain the xenophobic attitude. There was something else off about the place.

 

Riding behind Ezio through the streets to a guesthouse Ezio had stayed at before on his travels, Desmond became aware of a sense of hostility hanging over the city like a shroud. The few people who were out and about hastily went out of their way, while others watched them riding past, suspicion in their expressions, haunted looks in their eyes. Guards were on patrol, looking dark-faced and determined, and twice Ezio had to repeat the cause for their stay in Prato to men fingering their weapons.

 

They came across a small market place. In the middle of it, before the doors of a squat church rising red-bricked and foreboding into the sky, black scorch marks around the still-smoldering remains of a stake told their own, grim tale. Desmond steered his horse closer, driven by morbid curiosity and expecting charred bones among the remnants of wood, but there were only flakes of paper scattered amid the ashes.

 

The scent of burned wood made Menace shy away. Desmond patted the horse's neck. “Looks like someone burned books.” He steered Menace alongside Ezio's horse. “Is that common, around here?”

 

Ezio looked troubled. “No.” His eyes were bright under the rim of the hood, darting back and forth. “Let's move. I don't feel comfortable, out in the open like this. There are too many people watching us.”

 

They arrived at the guest house in the city's north a few minutes later. A meek-looking stable boy took their horses. Ezio led the way inside, to a comfortably appointed sitting room, where they were greeted by an elderly woman with an ample bosom squeezed into too tight a dress. She introduced herself as 'Madam Rosetta', hugging Ezio as though they were old acquaintances and peering curiously at Desmond.

 

“A cousin,” Ezio lied smoothly. “He spent much time abroad. I plan on showing him the countryside while he's here.”

 

Madam Rosetta rolled her eyes. “Then you had best hurry. Things progressing as they are, there won't be much left to show him, soon.”

 

Those ominous words distracted Desmond from his idle inspection of their surroundings. From the street, the house had looked unassuming, a bit run-down even, but the interior was a pleasant surprise: heavy, dark furniture, tastefully arranged, invited to lounge and spend time. The floor was marble, pale pink with darker veins, swept clean. This place didn't quite have the feel of a guest house, though, especially since he could hear a number of female voices behind a curtain at the other side of the sitting room, raised in coquettish laughter. The paintings on the walls could, with very little imagination, be put into the category of 'erotic art', as could several of the sculptures arranged on small pedestals along the entry hallway.

 

As he turned to Madam Rosetta, the curtain on the other side of the sitting room twitched back. A heavily painted, almond-shaped eye set above curved lips painted a deep crimson peeked at him. The mouth crinkled at the corners into an appreciative smile. Then the curtain fell back into place and a renewed round of soft laughter rang out.

 

This wasn't a quest house. It was a brothel. Somehow, Desmond wasn't surprised Ezio would know where to find one. If Ezio took his pleasures where he found them, _this_ certainly would be one of the places to look.

 

“I take it there are problems?” Ezio inquired.

 

“You could say that.” Madam Rosetta motioned for them to follow her. Through a door they went, up a steep staircase. She talked back to them over her shoulder, skirts trailing over the steps. “Ever since that damn monk came by, business has dried up. Even the regulars are staying away, thanks to those preachings.”

 

Desmond exchanged a look with Ezio. “We saw a stake on the market place. . .”

 

Madam Rosetta led them to a door at the end of a short hallway. “Be glad you didn't come by earlier. It was a bonfire, only it was paper that burned, not flesh. Still! All those books, all those paintings. . . the city council has gone mad, I tell you. They've emptied the library, just because that fool monk told them to! Can you believe that?” She made a disparaging sound, made a visible effort to calm herself, and gave them a smile. “Now, you rest, dearies. I'll send a tray up, with a meal.”

 

She went back downstairs. Ezio sighed, opened the door, and ushered Desmond inside.

 

As soon as the door shut behind them, Desmond said, “Well, I guess that answers the question what Savonarola is doing with the Apple.” It hadn't taken much for him to make the obvious connection between 'monk', 'book burnings' and 'preachings'. “Fantastic. A religious nutter, that's the last thing I need.”

 

Ezio pulled his hood down, looking weary and annoyed. “Rodrigo _will_ hear of this, if he hasn't already. Book burnings?” He sat down on a chaise. “How did Savonarola even know what the Apple _is_?”

 

“Maybe he saw you, or. . .I don't know. Maybe he's a Templar, too.” Taking a slow tour of their appointed room, Desmond stopped at the window. A small, well-kept garden stretched behind the building, lit by torches but empty, not a soul in sight. The entire city was eerily quiet. “What now?”

 

“We rest. We could ride through the night, but that would only force us to rest longer, tomorrow, until the horses recover.” Ezio joined him at the window. His hand curved over Desmond's hip with easy familiarity, and he rested his chin on Desmond's shoulder. “In your time, is it the same?”

 

Desmond leaned some of his weight against Ezio's bulk. “Is what the same?”

 

“This religious fanaticism. The longer I live, the worse it seems to get.”

 

Making an informed judgment if things in 'his time' had gotten worse, better or remained the same as in the past, was beyond Desmond's historical knowledge; he _was_ in the past, but his experiences were limited to specific places. He wasn't religious himself; knowing that mankind had been created to serve as a self-renewing work force by a precursor race had taken away the last vestigial shreds of belief in a god, or any god, whose main interest was the well-being of his/her/its master creation. If there was a god, that omnipotent being had probably long since left for greener pastures.

 

“Some things never change,” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eyes actual history again* Aww, what the hell. I'll be axing down a few things in the 1-2 chapters to come. History buffs beware.


	14. FOURTEEN

_**Chapter FOURTEEN** _

 

\- - -

**Prato, April 11 th, 1492**

**\- - -**

 

Sleeping with Ezio was a completely different experience than _sleeping_ with Ezio, Desmond learned that night.

 

In Florence, in Leonardo's workshop, the situation of having to share the bed hadn't come up; the narrow cot wasn't large enough to allow two grown men to sleep comfortably, unless they were piled on top of each other, so they had taken turns between the bed and that sofa-like thing Leonardo kept around for visitors.

 

The brothel offered large, comfortably furnished rooms and soft beds piled high with pillows. There was a chaise, too, yet after a day spent in the saddle, it seemed incongruous that one of them should have to sleep anywhere else but on the piece of furniture intended for that very purpose. There was enough space for both of them, and once they'd cleaned the generously laden plates sent up by Madam Rosetta, Ezio drew the heavy brocade curtains over the single window, while Desmond locked the door. Ezio lit a single, thick white candle in a dish on the mantle of the fireplace. They kicked off their boots, washed off the travel dust at the basin, and crawled into bed.

 

Desmond's sleepless night began with Ezio's mumbled, “Good night.”

 

He didn't notice it at first, too caught up in the pleasure of stretching out on a soft surface, the various aches that came with the slow relaxation of tense muscles taking up his attention. Then, though, by degrees, once he'd found a comfortable position and drawn the blanket up to his ears, it began: Desmond was all at once acutely aware of Ezio breathing next to him.

 

It unnerved him, and then it unnerved him that it unnerved him.

 

He'd slept in close quarters with other people before – he'd lost count of the times he fell asleep in Altaïr's lap, in Masyaf – but never before had Desmond been so aware of another body's presence next to his as he was now. Ezio was neither prone to cuddling nor did he move around all that much; in fact, Ezio seemed to have dropped off into sleep the second his head hit the pillow. Still, Desmond heard and felt it all, the subtle shifts of long limbs under the blanket, the rise and fall of Ezio's chest, the slow dip of the mattress when Ezio did move.

 

He tried to let the sounds, the cadence of Ezio's breath, lull him to sleep. It didn't work. He shifted position, slowly and silently so as not to wake Ezio, but as comfortable as the bed was, as tired as Desmond was, sleep wouldn't come no matter how much he courted it.

 

It was ridiculous. Over the previous days, they had done far more intimate things in bed together than simply sleeping. Just to be on the safe side and to get rid of possibly incriminating evidence, Ezio had even changed the sheets on the cot in Leonardo's workshop, the morning before they set out.

 

Desmond rolled from his side onto his back. The ceiling proved no more sleep-inducing than the wall. He let his gaze wander over the interior of their room, made shadowy and cave-like by light from the single candle, but that didn't help, either. Next to him, Ezio was blissfully snoozing away. The random scars scattered over the sculpted planes of Ezio's back and shoulders, nearly invisible in the unsteady light, invited to a game of 'count the sheep'.

 

Desmond counted them six times over, and was no less awake afterward. He was tempted to get up and walk around the room, just to work off the nervous energy that had overtaken him, but that _would_ have woken Ezio and led to questions Desmond wasn't sure he had answers for.

 

He didn't know why it bothered him so much, to have to share sleeping space, or why Ezio next to him suddenly appeared as a foreign object that didn't belong there.

 

By the time gray morning light crawled around the edges of the curtains, battling the candle light for dominance over the room, Desmond was drifting uneasily in and out of shallow slumber brought on by sheer exhaustion. He'd moved all the way to the edge of the mattress, hoping to minimize his awareness of Ezio's presence; when Ezio stirred, stretching luxuriously with a yawn, Desmond sat up and cradled a head in his hands that felt as though it was stuffed with glass-edged cotton.

 

“Good morning,” Ezio rumbled.

 

There was nothing 'good' about this particular morning, from Desmond's point of view. He muttered something in reply that, with a lot of imagination, might have been a greeting, heaved himself out of bed, and began to collect his scattered clothes.

 

Ezio leaned up on one elbow, watching him. “Sleep well?”

 

Desmond bumped his hip into a small table, threw an irritated look in Ezio's direction, and began to pull his clothes on.

 

“I'll take that as a no, then,” Ezio said, sounding as if he wasn't bothered by either the irritated look or Desmond's obvious lack of coordination. He stretched again, making use of the entire width of the bed, toes curling. “We'll set out in two hours or so. I want to say good-bye to Rosetta, before we go. She has been a good friend of mine, for many years.”

 

Stealing out of a brothel in the early morning was probably considered rude, in this time. Desmond muttered an agreement and flopped into a chair to put his boots on. Everything felt slightly out of whack, a sensation undoubtedly brought on by the lack of sleep; it was probably better if he kept his mouth shut and concentrated on not running into any other pieces of furniture.

 

\- - -

 

Breakfast was served by a young woman wearing a whole lot of 'nothing much', despite the early hour, who flirted unabashedly with Ezio and kept throwing interested glances in Desmond's direction, trying to draw him into the conversation with sweet smiles. She introduced herself as Flora. She had a well-scrubbed, rosy-cheeked appearance, long legs, long, brown hair; like Ezio, Flora was disgustingly awake.

 

Standing by the window and gazing out over the rooftops of Prato while chewing on a piece of bread without much interest, Desmond did his best to ignore the banter going on behind him. Twice, he caught sight of Ezio's and Flora's reflections in the window; each time, he felt his mood worsen.

 

Flora was sitting on Ezio's lap, feeding him grapes and other morsels from the plates she'd brought with her. They were laughing, making a show of each other, behaving in a way that suggested a familiarity beyond being merely passing acquaintances. It wasn't hard to guess how, exactly, that familiarity had come about.

 

_I take my pleasures where I can, when I can. Everything is permitted._

 

Operating on what felt like less than two hours of sleep, if that drifting half-awareness he'd finally succumbed to could be called 'sleep', Desmond attempted to ignore the resentment that crept up on him unexpectedly, the longer the spectacle behind him went on. He had no claim to Ezio. He didn't want any claims; his time here, in Italy, was even more severely limited than his time in Masyaf had been. Becoming emotionally attached to anyone, even if it was just on a friendly basis, was a very bad idea.

 

But he couldn't help feeling a sting of jealousy, nevertheless, and by now Desmond had a history of becoming attached to people even when rationally, he knew he shouldn't. It was his curse, the one thing neither Altaïr's training nor his experiences in Syria had managed to rid him of.

 

At long last, Flora rose, despite Ezio's whine of protest. “Now, I must get back to work, and leave you to yours.” She collected the empty plates, stacking them on her tray, and swiftly moved out of reach when Ezio made a showy grab for her. “None of that now,” she said sternly. Her voice softened, “Do promise that you'll come back, once your business is finished.”

 

No questions as to what she wanted Ezio to come back _for_.

 

“I promise,” Ezio said. His reflection in the window suggested he'd rather enjoyed the attention: sitting there on the chaise with his arms spread along the back, shirt rumpled and a wide grin on his lips, he looked extraordinarily pleased with himself. “You know I'll always come back to you.”

 

It was so _smarmy_. It was like watching Ezio flirt with all the women in the market place in Florence, all over again. Only then, it hadn't bothered Desmond as much as it did now. Savagely, Desmond chewed the last bite of bread, ignoring Flora's friendly farewell.

 

The door clapped, leaving them alone. A trace of Flora's perfume remained, heavy and cloying. It took all of Desmond's willpower to not yank the window open, to get rid of that lingering scent.

 

“You probably made that poor girl doubt her self-worth, turning a cold shoulder like that,” Ezio commented after a minute of silence, in quite a different tone of voice. “Has Altaїr not taught you any manners?”

 

Desmond turned around, irked. “You want me to be nice to a whore?”

 

Ezio was still sprawled into the chaise like sin itself. His shirt was open at the collar, showing the corded column of his neck and further down, dark, curled hair dusting his chest. He sat with his knees spread wide, open; his entire posture was an invitation. One Flora had taken him up on, without hesitation – and really, Desmond had to stop thinking about that, right now.

 

“Whores are a good source of information, if you want to know more about a city and especially the things that might not be apparent at first glance.” Ezio reached for one of the last grapes, rolling it between his fingers. He gave Desmond a sharp, reproachful look. “Treat them with the respect they deserve, and they can be powerful allies and very good friends. At the moment, we remain undetected and quite safe, thanks to a _whore's_ hospitality.”

 

Chastised, Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose. The lack of sleep had turned him moody to the point where he wanted to lash out, just for the sake of lashing out. He fished for an excuse. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm just tired, that's all.”

 

“Really.” Ezio popped the grape into his mouth. “I slept quite well. Was the bed not to your liking?”

 

Desmond shook his head. He wasn't going to tell Ezio that the bed hadn't been the problem, just the company. There was no way to put that nicely, without looking like an imbecile; there had been nothing to stop Desmond from getting up and sleeping on the chaise, after all. “It was fine.”

 

Ezio cocked his head. He looked at Desmond, from the tips of his boots up to his eyes, and then said in utter seriousness, “I wish Altaїr was around, just so I could give him a piece of my mind. Or your _other_ father, for that matter. Or whoever it was that made you what you are.”

 

Caught off-guard, Desmond blinked at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“I would think it is quite obvious.” Ezio's eyes narrowed.

 

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

 

“You're like one of Leonardo's inventions. They work, quite beautifully I might add, but each time I look at them I can't help but wonder when they will explode, like the carnival fireworks.” Ezio twirled a hand, indicating Desmond in his entirety. “You think too much, and you keep it all inside. You talk to no one, unless asked. Every bit of information you've given me, I've had to fight for.” Ezio tipped a finger against his brow. “It is all here, for you. In your head, and there it stays. What happened to you that you are so,” he frowned, obviously looking for the right words, “closed off? Did Altaїr beat you, when you spoke out out turn, or what?”

 

Desmond was at a loss for words in the wake of that barrage. Had Ezio just likened him to a ticking time bomb? Had Ezio just insinuated Altaїr had _abused_ him? How the hell had their conversation even gotten to this point, where Ezio was passing judgment on Desmond's character, and after only a week of knowing him? And where had Ezio's glowing admiration gone, the way he spoke of Altaїr as though that long-dead man was sacrosanct, when in reality only _Desmond_ knew the truth – and had kept that to himself, even, because it was no one's business, _now_.

 

And the rest of it? That was pure bullshit. That was Ezio seeing things that simply weren't there, weren't the truth. Desmond had told Ezio everything. At least, he'd told him everything that mattered. Everything that was important _now_ , that might help them with getting the Apple of Eden back from Savonarola, everything that explained Desmond's existence in present time.

 

What else was there, to tell? Everything else was just window-dressing, meaningless to their current problems.

 

“For the record, Altaїr never laid a finger on me.” Desmond forced an even tone of voice, though it was hard. It rankled, to hear Ezio's verdict, thrown out like that, as if the few days they had been spending in each other's company had somehow given Ezio omniscient insight into the exact workings of Desmond's character and motives. “He taught me to focus on what is important. Next time I sleep badly, I'll just tell you all about it, shall I? Because it's so _important_.”

 

Ezio rose from the chaise. Gone was the sensual sprawl; he was all business now, standing with his feet apart, arms crossed over his chest. “It is important, if it makes you act like this. You were _radiating_ hostility just now, a blind man could have picked up on that. Weren't you taught to blend in?”

 

“I was, but this -”

 

Ezio lifted an eyebrow. “You're not very good at it. Altaїr must have focused on other areas,” he looked at Desmond again, from his eyes downward and back up, “though I've yet to discover which those are.”

 

That was enough.

 

“Shut up! You've known me for how long? _One_ week?” Desmond was quickly reaching the end of his tether. As soon as he got his hands on the Apple of Eden, he was gone. Where, exactly, did Ezio want him to blend in – and what did Ezio expect, for him to shit rainbows, because he'd trained under Altaїr? “And leave my dad out of it, understand? You know nothing about him!”

 

“Well,” Ezio said quietly, “I know he wasn't your father, for one.”

 

“He was more of a father to me than William ever -”

 

Making a quick, shushing gesture, Ezio glanced at the door. “Lower your voice, you'll -”

 

“Shut. Up.” Desmond enunciated, very clearly, but he did lower his voice. Ezio's criticism had been completely uncalled for, and he wasn't going to let that go. “I have a goal. I'm going to reach it, no matter what it takes. _That_ is what Altaїr taught me, and I am grateful for it. For the first time in my entire life, I know what the hell I'm supposed to do, and -”

 

“All alone?” Ezio interrupted. “You'll fail.” He stuck his chin out. “I used to think like you. I used to think it was me against the world. You can't beat the world all by yourself. I would think someone like Altaїr would know that, and teach accordingly.”

 

“Who said I'm going to be -”

 

“You.” Ezio shrugged, as though it was obvious. “From the moment I met you, it was 'you'. _You_ are going to get the Apple of Eden back from Savonarola, _you_ are going to stop the fire that burns the earth.” He spread his arms wide and lifted his brows. “You, and what army?”

 

Speechless, Desmond fumbled for an answer – one that did not include giving in to his gut reaction of wanting to punch Ezio in the face. Once more the conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

 

“I see you have no answer,” Ezio said, quietly.

 

Desmond scoffed. “An answer to _what_? The in-depth analysis of my psyche? Or Altaïr's oh so obvious shortcomings as a teacher, which you, of course, would know all about?”

 

“Either.” Ezio shrugged again. “I think, with all the information Altaїr pulled from the Apple, enough that he filled an entire codex with it, he should have given you more armaments than just a 'goal'. You're going to die. Noble as your intentions may be, what kind of goal is that?”

 

Desmond had thought that way, too, until that day at the top of the Mentor's tower, when he witnessed Altaїr during one of his 'dives' into the Apple of Eden for the first time, and nearly paid for it with his life. Obviously, Ezio's contact with the Apple had been rather more limited than Desmond's and Altaïr's; now, though, Desmond was beginning to think that Ezio had an entirely wrong idea about that thing.

 

He'd had a very similar idea, once upon a time. He, too, had once thought there was something Altaїr had been holding back.

 

_It offers so much, just not what I_ need _. I thought it was going to be easy. Find a way to get you here, and the Apple gave me that. Train you, prepare you, so that you might stand a chance, and I know I can do that. But what does it matter? You're still going to have to make that awful decision._

 

Desmond remembered that revelation clearly, as well as the feeling of despair that had taken a hold of him, afterward, when he allowed himself to think about it. There was no miracle solution, and Altaїr had finally admitted it that night, atop the Mentor's tower. That, and so much more.

 

But that didn't mean Altaïr's initial idea, to train Desmond, had been wrong. He had botched up a few times, revealed himself capable of things that very clearly hadn't been to Desmond's liking, or even in accord with _any_ moral standards, but he hadn't been _wrong_ about wanting to tilt the scales of fate in Desmond's favor, even if only slightly.

 

Altaїr might not have been the faultless, legendary hero the Assassins in this time revered him as, but he _had_ prepared Desmond to the best of his ability; Altaїr had been more of a father to him than William, ever, and at the end of it, despite all the heartaches, the confusion, the upheavals, Desmond loved him.

 

Ezio seemed to have forgotten that there was a person behind every legend, prone to make mistakes, flawed. Human.

 

Desmond drew himself up tall, gazing down his nose at Ezio. He was seething. Clipped, he said, “He gave me all he could. You're wrong, if you think he was holding back. You have no right to judge him. You might have read parts of his codex, but you _didn't know_ him.”

 

Ezio said nothing, only looked at him from under drawn brows, expression dark. A moment of dense, uncomfortable silence passed between them.

 

“What the hell did you expect me to be?” Desmond asked.

 

A look of disappointment crossed Ezio's face. “More than this.”

 

Feeling almost physically repelled by the blunt words, Desmond took a mental step back, before he did or said something he was going to regret, forcing a deliberate, unemotional focus. He'd suspected something like this before, in passing, but he had ignored it. Ezio saw him as a green Novice, inexperienced and perhaps even weak. Their initial meeting at the Santa Maria del Fiore, in Florence, where Desmond had been soundly and easily defeated, the way Desmond was all but trailing in Ezio's wake now, relying on him for direction, provisions, even the frigging horses, probably fed into that impression.

 

_More than this_.

 

More like Altaїr, whom Ezio knew nothing of? Nothing that counted – nothing that made Altaїr more than a legend, stripped of everything that made him the person Desmond had known, 300 years ago.

 

“Well,” he said icily, “I'm sorry I'm not living up to your expectations. Might I make a suggestion?”

 

Ezio gave him a wary look and nodded.

 

Desmond picked up his jacket, pulled it on, and went to the door. He was so done with this conversation. “Let's find Savonarola. The sooner we do, the sooner I'll be out of your hair.”

 

\- - -

 

He made an effort to be civil to Madam Rosetta when they left, and even allowed her to draw him against her heaving bosom. She didn't accompany them to the stables, but waved good-bye with an embroidered handkerchief from the doorway of the house, wishing them speed and good fortune for their journey.

 

The young day matched Desmond's mood: overcast and joyless, the sky stretched above them as they led their horses into the street. By daylight, the city of Prato looked less welcoming than it had during the night. The streets were as empty, except for the patrolling guards who sent them the same suspicious, lingering looks as Ezio and he rode past them, toward the south gate of the city.

 

“The next large city is Bologna,” Ezio said, once they were out of earshot of the gate guards and trotting along the road that rose steeply toward the Apennines mountain range, pointing them northward. “There are smaller settlements along the road, villages and a few farmsteads. If we don't reach Bologna before nightfall, we'll find shelter with the peasants.”

 

The way to Bologna, according to the maps Desmond had looked at in Florence, led straight through a few mountain passes, out of Tuscany into the region known as Emilia-Romagna – a long ride through dangerous terrain, and there was no way to know what else might await them, on the road. So far, their journey had been a sightseeing trip.

 

Desmond suspected Ezio was keen on covering the greatest distance possible just to cut down on the time they had to spend in close quarters. They hadn't exchanged more words than was necessary since their fight. Desmond could understand Ezio's point of view – if all Desmond had known about Altaїr prior to meeting him was the legend, he would have been disappointed, too.

 

That didn't make Desmond feel any more inclined to be lenient in regards to the other things Ezio had flung at him. No matter how prepared or how well-trained Desmond was - or wasn't, according to Ezio - it didn't change the fact that his future was set in stone. He was very likely going to die. Ezio could point out his shortcomings, point out _Altaïr's_ – it made no difference.

 

It wasn't going to change anything.

 

It was probably better not to think about that, or about the fight. For all his criticism of Altaїr, Ezio was more like him than he knew, in one aspect at least: Altaїr, too, had outright attacked Desmond's way of handling things, after just a few days of knowing him. Granted, Desmond had been stuck in the body of a toddler at the time, and had just tried to run away from Masyaf without a plan or provisions, but the principle was the same.

 

That, too, was something Desmond wasn't going to bring up in conversation. In fact, he would welcome it if there was as little conversation as possible. Who know what other areas Ezio would discover, otherwise, that he thought Desmond was lacking in?

 

They rode in silence, making the pass near Mount Retaia around noon. The sun reached its zenith behind a milky cover of clouds. It was cold, and a sharp wind crept under the protective layer of clothes, turning the breath of men and horses alike into white plumes. Snow crusted on the rocks at the side of the road and clung to the ragged walls of the mountain looming over them.

 

Just as quickly as the climate had turned frosty, it changed again. The road took a sharp bend around a jutting cluster of rocks. Desmond gazed in silent appreciation at the lush, green valley spread out before them, at the foot of the mountain, vibrant under the sun that broke through the clouds as they steered the horses down the meandering road. It was slower going downhill than up; halfway down the mountain, the road turned into a mere footpath, requiring absolute concentration from rider and steed.

 

Then, abruptly, they were on flatter ground. The forest swallowed them. The wind lost its sharp bite and through the thick canopy of leaves overhead, the sun twinkled merrily. Desmond judged the time to be late afternoon and stretched, attempting to limber up. He was less tired than he thought he'd be, and looked around curiously. Trees, as far as the eye could see, and green meadows, and shrubbery. The air smelled of earth.

 

Menace whinnied softly, heading for a patch of grass at the side of the path, at the foot of a large oak.

 

“Let's take a break,” Ezio suggested. He lifted a water skin to his lips and drank deeply.

 

Desmond slid out of the saddle and patted Menace's neck, watching the horse munch on grass. His knees felt a little rubbery, and the muscles in his thighs were aching. “How far to the nearest settlement?”

 

“Half an hour, that way.” Ezio pointed down the path, which meandered between the trees. He steered his horse next to Desmond's, jumped out of the saddle, and threw his hood back. “If Savonarola passed this way, we'll surely pick up news about him, there.”

 

Desmond had been pondering Savonarola ever since they set out from Prato. The sight of the stake in Prato's market place and hearing of book burnings had given him a somewhat clear idea what the monk was using the Apple of Eden for. To the non-initiated, the clueless, something like the Apple of Eden, especially in the hands of a monk – a man of the cloth, a man of god – had to look like the Ten Commandments handed down from the heavens. It was power, given solid form, _real_. Even the stoutest atheist, knowing no better, would probably be inclined to agree that there was something godly behind it.

 

But why was Savonarola taking the Apple to Venice? According to everything Ezio and Leonardo had told Desmond, the city was on par with Florence, in terms of advancement; enlightenment had struck the people there as much as it had the inhabitants of Florence. Artists, philosophers and scientists were dazzling the world with new, breathtaking inventions and theories daily, challenging the ironclad rules and laws of society and introducing a fresh, less religious look at the world.

 

Why Venice? Why not Rome, where a monk carrying a 'tool of god' would have the greatest impact, and was less likely to run into opposition from more enlightened people?

 

Perhaps because Rome meant Rodrigo Borgia, recently made Pope. Savonarola _had_ to be aware of the existence of the Templars, or maybe he just didn't want the Apple to come within reach of the Holy See for other, as of yet unknown reasons. Geographically speaking, he was taking the Apple of Eden as far away from Rome as was possible, while still staying in the boundaries of Italy.

 

Perhaps he -

 

Something hit Desmond's brow and slid wetly down his temple. He reached up, annoyed, to wipe it away, less than pleased that a bird had taken a dump on him.

 

His fingertips came away red.

 

He looked up slowly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Ezio, alerted by his movement, do the same.

 

Desmond forgot all about Savonarola and the Apple of Eden, captured by the grotesque sight of a pair of boots hanging in the canopy of leaves overhead, fifteen feet or so above the ground. The boots belonged to a bundle of rags that, upon closer inspection, was the motionless figure of a man suspended from a sturdy branch directly above him.

 

Desmond stepped back, attempting to get a better view. He was disconcerted to not have noticed it before – but then, he hadn't been around trees of this size lately, and how often did you come upon a tree that had a corpse hanging in it as decoration? Ezio hadn't noticed it, either; judging by the look of absent shock on Ezio's face, it wasn't a very common sight.

 

He couldn't see much of the man's face, only a bit of jaw, unshaven and dirt-crusted, bloated cheeks, the neck bent at an unnatural angle. Aside from the boots, the corpse was dressed in loose, ragged pants and a shirt laced at the collar, reminding Desmond of the clothes worn by the old fisherman who had dragged him out of the river in Florence. Over the man's back, the shirt was shredded, as if someone had taken a whip to him.

 

“A bandit?” Desmond guessed.

 

Ezio shook his head. He'd walked even further away to get a better look, and was staring up at the corpse, frowning. “No. I know this man. Not his name, but he's a worker from Sasso.”

 

“Sasso?”

 

“Little town that way.” Ezio pointed down the path again, but his gaze remained fixed on the corpse. “The man he works for – worked for, is an old business associate of my father's. They own and operate the grain mill in Sasso.”

 

Desmond glanced up again. He looked into the canopies of the nearby trees, expecting to see more dangling corpses, but thankfully, this was the only one. “Then what's he doing here?”

 

“I do not know.” Ezio headed for his horse. The animal protested the harsh tug he gave the reigns, startling Menace. Ignoring both, Ezio swung himself up into the saddle. “Let's go.”

 

“What, to Sasso? The horses need -” Desmond trailed off. Ezio was already forcing his mount into a fast pace, heading away from the site of their gruesome discovery. Stifling a curse, Desmond grabbed Menace's reigns, pulling him away from the patch of grass. The horse tossed its head and whinnied loudly. “Sorry, buddy. Time's up.”

 

A half-minute later, he was following Ezio along the forest path at breakneck speed.

 

\- - -

 

The forest lightened, the path they had been following turned into a proper road, and meadows gave way to orderly fields, green and brown, lined by apple trees and blooming shrubbery. A pretty sight, pleasing to the eye – if it hadn't been for the smoking ruin of a little farm house they rode past, just before they came upon a small bridge spanning a narrow, lively river.

 

Desmond had been smelling smoke for a while now. So had the horses. Menace, wet with sweat and flanks heaving following their fast, unrelenting pace, reared up on his hind legs just short of the bridge and nearly threw Desmond out of the saddle. Only a fast grab at the horse's mane and a clench of thigh muscles saved him from tumbling to the ground, where he'd possibly have fallen victim to Menace's trampling hooves.

 

Ezio rode across the bridge without a look back, urging his horse on with a sharp command.

 

Desmond slid out of the saddle, taking a firm hold of the reigns. He patted Menace's neck, attempting to calm the nervous animal down, and looked around, unsettled and feeling nervous himself. Sasso wasn't really a town. It was a small assembly of farms and a handful of brick houses, clustered along the river that crossed the road perpendicularly. Above the rooftops rose the bell tower of a church, shingled in red. To the left side from where Desmond was standing, the ground rose gently to a small hill, upon which stood the mill Ezio had mentioned.

 

It was quiet. Smoke hung in the air. There wasn't a soul in sight.

 

Cautiously, on foot, Desmond crossed the bridge, leading Menace by the reigns. It was _too_ quiet. The mill wheels were rotating, splashing river water, but that was the only sound Desmond could hear as he walked past the first houses, onto a cobble-stone street. Doors stood open, as though the inhabitants of the houses had just stepped out. A few smashed windows, here and there. A basket, overturned on a doorstep, loafs of bread scattered about.

 

Where were the people?

 

He caught sight of Ezio at the end of the street, stiff-backed atop his nervously treading horse, and headed that way. Ezio had stopped at the edge of a tiny market place. On the other side of the open, paved square, the church doors stood ajar, as if inviting the inhabitants to step inside.

 

But it wasn't the open church door Desmond focused on as he reached Ezio. The market place was spiked with stakes, coal-black and stinking. There were twelve of them, arranged in a circle around a bit of greenery in the middle of the market place, where stone benches invited to sit and take in the scenery of rural life.

 

Unlike the stake in Prato, though, these stakes here hadn't been used to mark the site of a book burning.

 

Desmond counted twelve corpses, charred and blistered, upright or crumbled into near-unrecognizable heaps of limbs at the foot of the stakes. They looked small, too small to count for adults; Desmond felt his stomach turn. Then he remembered that bodies shrunk, sometimes to half their size, when exposed to fire.

 

That didn't make the sight any less terrible.

 

“Stay here,” Ezio said tonelessly.

 

Desmond looked up at him sharply. “What? That can't be all of the inhabitants. What if they -”

 

“Stay!” Ezio snapped, making it an order. “Do not follow me.”

 

Desmond watched him ride away toward the mill, biting down on another comment. Splitting up was a bad idea. Sasso had to have more than twelve inhabitants. What if the rest had holed up somewhere, armed to the teeth with pitchforks, spades and scythes? Sasso looked deserted, not counting the corpses in the market place, but Ezio could be riding into a trap.

 

Menace whinnied again, turning and bumping Desmond nearly off his feet. The horse's eyes were wide, white around black. Patting him again, Desmond looked around while he made calming noises under his breath. He couldn't stay here. It was far too exposed a spot, and the smell of smoke was too thick here, spooking the horse.

 

He led Menace around the market place, as far away from the stakes and their occupants as possible, toward the church. He glanced inside, only to find it empty. It was a small church, tiny compared to the ones he'd seen in Florence, even tinier than the one in Prato. Its interior was simple: rows upon rows of wooden benches for the flock, an altar at the far side, a confessional box in the far right corner. The windows, high up in the white-washed walls, were simple glass. There was another door, right next to the confessional box, shut.

 

Desmond nudged Menace through the doors, slowly. At least the air smelled better in here, less smokey. Menace's hooves rang loudly on the stone-tiled floor, echoed hollowly; was it sacrilegious, to lead a horse into a church? It probably was. Compared to the gruesome sight outside, however, his offense was probably a minor one.

 

A thin, dry whimper reached Desmond's ears. He wasn't alone, despite his initial impression that the church was empty.

 

“Hello?” He wound Menace's reigns around the back of one of the benches and looked around once more. “Is anyone here?”

 

No answer. No sight of anyone hiding under a bench or hanging from the vaulted ceiling, either. Hesitating, Desmond glanced at the church doors, ajar behind him. The market place was still empty, save for the corpses. Ezio was nowhere in sight. Menace seemed to have calmed down somewhat, though his ears were turning this way and that, as if he, too, was trying to figure out where that whimper had come from.

 

“Hello? Answer if you can hear me.” Desmond focused on the only thing left inside the church that offered any cover, and headed for the confessional box in the far corner. “I'm just a traveler, and I saw the corpses outside, and. . .”

 

He fell silent, attention derailed by something he'd missed before, because it had been in plain sight. A large, framed painting hung on the wall behind the altar, showing a depiction of Mary, sitting on a rock, the infant Jesus on her lap. It was an ordinary painting, and not a very good one – even with his limited knowledge about art, Desmond could tell the anatomy of both Mary and Jesus was off – but someone had taken a knife to it and slashed up the canvas in several places, as though offended by the sight.

 

_Burned books, and now this. What the hell is going on here?_

 

“Go away,” a thin voice pleaded. “Leave us in peace. God help us, leave us in peace, _please_.”

 

This time Desmond could easily pinpoint where that had come from. He stepped up to the confessional box. It was a simple, wooden construction, just large enough for two people. Two red curtains offered a minimum of privacy. Drawing back the first one only to find the narrow space behind it empty, Desmond released his hidden blade, bracing himself for a possible attack, and reached for the second curtain.

 

He yanked it back.

 

The man cowering on the floor of the confessional uttered a miserable shriek of fear. He lay curled upon himself, his knees drawn nearly to his chest, and had lifted an arm above his head, as if to ward off an incoming blow. He was old, frail; he wore a simple, black robe, and for a second Desmond entertained the wild idea that he'd found Savonarola. Then he took a second look, and swiftly discarded that idea.

 

“Please, don't kill me!” the man shouted, voice cracking. His hair was white and disheveled. He was balding at the top. His face was streaked with drying blood from a shallow-looking scratch down one temple. The skin around his mouth and along his jaw was discolored, bruised yellow and purple, and his eyes, watery, bloodshot blue, were wide with terror. “Please!”

 

The man's free hand was clutching a wooden cross to his chest, affixed to a leather cord.

 

Desmond knelt, letting the blade slide back into its sheath. “I mean no harm,” he repeated, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. He'd found Sasso's priest, apparently. “Calm down. What happened here?”

 

But the old man only continued to babble, to plead for his life, hasty words interrupted by grunts of pain and wheezes and the occasional, unintelligibly muttered prayer. He yelled at the top of his lungs when Desmond attempted to pull him out of the confessional, and receded back into muttering after that, curled into a tight, shaking ball.

 

Desmond gave up and rose, at a loss as to how to proceed. He'd found a survivor – one in a very bad state. The priest was literally being consumed by fear, and no amount of calming words would reach him. If this was Savonarola's doing, and very little doubt remained in Desmond's mind that it was, they needed to catch up with the mad monk, _fast_.

 

The church doors slammed open, startling Menace and Desmond alike. The priest shrieked again, scrabbling at the wooden walls of the confessional like a wounded animal back into a corner.

 

“I thought I told you to stay where you are,” Ezio snarled testily, striding in. His hood was down. His eyes were dark, narrowed in anger – he'd probably returned to where Desmond was supposed to be, still, only to find him gone. “Can't you even follow a simple order?”

 

Desmond frowned at the harsh tone of voice. He pointed at the cowering priest. “I found a survivor.”

 

Ezio came up to his side in a huff, all but carrying his personal, black rain cloud. Sparing one short look for the priest, he grabbed Desmond by the arm, none-too-gently, and pulled him around. “I was worried. I thought -”

 

Desmond had had enough. He turned, facing Ezio, and twisted his arm out of the hard grip. One hand found purchase at the front of Ezio's robe. He dropped backward, yanking Ezio along, and slammed his foot against the stylized 'A' of Ezio's belt, to have the leverage he needed. The tiled floor stopped their descent.

 

It was one of the first, defensive moves Altaїr had taught Desmond. Considering recent events, Desmond thought it appropriate to demonstrate just how effective a move it was. Ezio was windmilling his arms above him, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed. They were, for one split second, facing each other: Desmond on his back on the ground, Ezio balanced above him, his entire weight resting on Desmond's foot.

 

Desmond straightened his leg, propelling Ezio away head-over-heels.

 

Ezio flew into the first row of benches facing the altar, landing in a whirl of white robes. The noise of 200 pounds or so of heavily armed and fully armored Assassin meeting wood was deafening, drowning out the priest's babbling and Menace's nervous whinnying.

 

It was music to Desmond's ears; it was _satisfying_. He swung his leg back down, used the momentum of the motion to come back to his feet, and flicked his hand, releasing his hidden blade. The priest's voice took on an alarmed note. He ignored it, turning on his heel and striding to where Ezio, with just as much noise, was getting back to his feet.

 

The sight of Desmond heading for him, blade extended, froze him. Warily, he looked from Desmond's face down to the sharp length of steel, and back up.

 

“What do you think you're -”

 

Desmond's first attack shut him up again. The straightforward stab at Ezio's midsection never reached its mark, as Ezio, realizing the seriousness of the situation, evaded it at the last moment by jumping back, but the tip of Desmond's hidden blade did scratch over the front piece of Ezio's belt with a jarring screech of metal against metal.

 

Aware that the priest behind him was now crawling out of the confessional, Desmond focused on the man assuming a cautious, defensive position in front of him. Deliberately, he set aside what he knew about Ezio, personally, and focused on him as if he were an enemy.

 

That, presently, wasn't a very hard state of mind to achieve.

 

Ezio was heavy, due to all the layers of cloth, leather and metal, the bracers, the shoulder guard, that silly cape. He was taller than Desmond, not by much, but enough for it to count; he had the greater reach. He had two bracers, which meant two hidden blades and, Desmond made sure to recall, that hidden gun.

 

What Ezio did not have, laden as he was, was speed.

 

“Desmond, what the hell -”

 

Desmond went straight for him, ignoring Ezio's expression of disbelief. Speed and evasion, more so than brute force, were his forte. He came at Ezio with a series of fast, vicious stabs, all aimed at the same spot, and landed three hits against the metal of Ezio's belt.

 

From up close, the look on Ezio's face was priceless.

 

A flick of his wrist sheathed Desmond's hidden blade, just before the heel of his hand caught Ezio square in the chest, with enough force to send him stumbling back a few steps.

 

“Stop!” the priest shouted behind them. “Do not spill blood in this house of god!”

 

Spilling blood had never been Desmond's intention. Coolly, he analyzed that if he _had_ been serious, Ezio would be dead four times over, now – a point that was beginning to dawn on Ezio as well, apparently, as they stood facing each other. Slowly, still staring at Desmond as though he was truly seeing him for the first time, Ezio reached up and rubbed at his chest.

 

Desmond turned and marched over to where the priest was standing. The noise, the attack he'd launched on Ezio, seemed to have pulled the old man from his frantic babbling and near-catatonic state of mind; Desmond hadn't planned for that to happen, but he wasn't going to let this moment go to waste.

 

The priest shrank back as he approached, clutching his wooden cross like a shield. “Do not. . .”

 

“I'm not going to hurt you.” Desmond stopped just out of arm's reach. “What happened here? Where are the villagers?”

 

“I. . .” The priest stared at him. “A monk came by, two days ago. He carried a strange artifact. It. . .it drove the villagers mad, and they started,” he swallowed, gaze turning inward, “they. . .oh god. . .”

 

“Did he say where he was going? Concentrate, man!”

 

“He only said he was doing god's work. That he was going to rid us all of our sins.” Trembling fingers clutching the wooden cross, the priest started to whine under his breath, rocking back and forth. “Oh god, all these good people. Oh god, oh god. . .”

 

Desmond eyed him for a moment, gave him some time, but it was no use. Already, the priest's eyes were watering, losing focus again. Whatever lucidity had overcome him was now leaving him a trembling, frail old man once more, caught in the memory of the horrors he must have witnessed taking place in Sasso, two days ago.

 

Two days. If Savonarola made more stops along his route, to 'rid' the world of sin. . .

 

Leaving the priest to his muttering, Desmond turned on his heel. He caught sight of Ezio, still standing where that last punch had sent him stumbling to. The look Ezio sent him was full of anger, but there was something else, too – something that Desmond, at present, wasn't overly interested in. Attacking Ezio had been about proving a point.

 

Point proven, he was going to leave it to the other Assassin to figure out what to make of it.

 

Desmond walked past him, to Menace. He untangled the reigns from the back of the bench, patted the horse's neck, his flanks. Menace's fur was still moist, evidence that continuing at the pace they had been going to reach Sasso, was out of the question. The horses needed rest and feeding, more than just the few bites of grass they'd had, in the forest. No matter how far ahead of them Savonarola was, they couldn't risk losing the horses to exhaustion or injury; on foot, they would never catch up with the monk.

 

“I'm going to find a place to sleep,” Desmond announced, to no one in particular, and led his horse out of the church.

 

\- - -

 

Savonarola must have come over Sasso and its inhabitants like a thunderstorm, unexpected and devastating. For over an hour, Desmond searched through the houses for signs of other survivors, only to find none. He avoided the market place and its grizzly contents when he could, going in a slow circle from house to house until he reached the last one on the other end of the small town, calling, searching, but no one answered his calls.

 

It was a chilling, dreary experience. Desmond even found food left half-eaten on kitchen tables, as if the people had simply gotten up in the middle of their meal and left.

 

The inhabitants of Sasso, the ones that were still alive – if there were any still alive, aside from the priest - had vanished into thin air. Either they had run off into the forest, or perhaps gone to the next settlement for help, or they were hiding somewhere. Perhaps they were even following the mad monk, trailing after him faithfully, convinced of the righteousness of his claim to doing god's work. Two days was an awfully short time to drive the entire village into a religious frenzy, but with the Apple of Eden in hand. . .

 

Desmond gave up trying to figure it out. He would have answers when he found Savonarola, not before; all the wondering, the imagining, the second-guessing now, was a waste of time. He needed sleep, and food, and shelter for the approaching night.

 

Ezio remained conspicuously absent. He was probably still at the church. That was just as well; Desmond wasn't too keen about the other Assassin's company, presently.

 

The last house at the end of Sasso was little more than a two-room hut, with a straw-thatched roof. It stood by itself, a few yards back from the road leading out of the town, surrounded by a tiny, well-kept garden in the front and a narrow stretch of fenced meadow behind. A handful of geese were perched into a small corral; the birds were quiet, their beady eyes watching Desmond attentively as he led Menace onto the meadow to let him graze. Slightly unnerved by his spectators, Desmond unsaddled and rubbed Menace down with a blanket, and then returned into the house.

 

Its vanished occupant had probably been a man, judging by the clothes Desmond found in a wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, living a very simple life of few comforts. Aside from the bed and the trunk, the bedroom was bare of any other furniture. The other room contained a table and two chairs pushed up against one wall, all looking handmade and crude. There was small fireplace, with an empty, iron kettle on a hook above it, and a broom in one corner, next to a cupboard holding a few plates and jars, the contents of which Desmond didn't look at too closely.

 

The ceiling in both rooms was so low that Desmond thought he was going to bump his head, each time he straightened up. That, he mused idly, was something most history books were wrong about, when they described the past and its people. Neither in Masyaf nor in Florence had Desmond been a giant amongst others; it wasn't that the people were particularly small. They just _built_ small, due to a lack of resources and out of a need to contain heat, and only when they had to.

 

It was a meaningless, idle observation.

 

He sat down at the table, resting his back against the rough wall. He was tired, almost numb, but it felt wrong to want to stretch out on the bed in the other room. The thought that the man who'd lived here could be one of the corpses in the market place came unbidden and wouldn't leave him alone. He got up again, looking for something to distract himself with, and stopped at the single window, gazing out at the empty street.

 

Night was falling. He hadn't found any candles inside the house.

 

He went outside, collected an armful of wood from the stack next to the door, and set about making a fire. There was nothing in the house in the way of food, either, only a loaf of moldy bread on top of the cupboard. The satchel with traveling provisions had been strapped to the pommel of Ezio's saddle, when they set out from Prato in the early morning, Desmond recalled.

 

Peeved at the thought of having to find out where his ancestor was, after all, he moodily stared into the merrily crackling fire. Ezio Auditore da Firenze, Altaїr Ibn'La-Ahad – both profound men, both important, one according to the Apple for reasons unknown, and the other because he had _started_ all this, set Desmond on this course. Both of them, each in their own way, _so_ annoying, and Desmond was an expert at _letting_ them.

 

The geese in their corral began making agitated noises.

 

Ezio stood in the doorway when Desmond looked up. He had his horse's saddle over one shoulder, blankets and the satchel with their provisions under his other arm. Without a word to Desmond, Ezio came in, hooked one booted foot around the door, and pulled it shut.

 

“Nice place,” Ezio commented acerbically. With a clatter of wood, leather and metal, he set his saddle in a corner and stacked the blankets on top of it. He loped the satchel in Desmond's direction and went to investigate the other room, returning a moment later to stand there with his hands pushed into his hips, an expectant look on his face. “So, tell me. Is this big enough for the both of us, or shall I just go find a house of my own?”

 

“I'll just knock you out, when you start to annoy me,” Desmond said meaningfully. He hadn't moved from his spot in front of the fireplace. Reaching for the metal poker leaned against the wall next to the fireplace, he added, “You know I can, now.”

 

“Yes,” Ezio's lips curled into a narrow smile, “and it's nice to know that you _could_.” His smile faded. “That is, if I ever let my guard down around you, again.”

 

“Isn't that what you wanted?” Desmond poked at the fire, aligning the burning logs one after the other with painstaking precision. “Proof that I really trained under the great and mighty Altaїr? That I'm not just some idiot, fumbling around without a clue?” He glanced up at the other man, eyes narrowing. “Don't blame me for getting what you asked for. If you need to have your ass handed to you again, I'll happily oblige.”

 

The flatly delivered statement made Ezio tense to the point where Desmond thought the other man was going to throw himself at him, to pick up where they had – where _Desmond_ had – left off in the church. As far as Desmond could tell, Ezio was the crème de la crème of the Italian Assassin order; Ezio certainly behaved as though he was. With no other Assassins from this time to compare him against, Desmond had to assume he was.

 

It had to sting, to have been beaten like this, especially if prior to this point Ezio really had been thinking of Desmond as a green Novice.

 

Desmond wasn't sorry at all for what he'd done. After this morning's verbal fisticuffs and the completely wrong theories about his training and Altaïr's behavior toward him, as well as that belittling _'more than this_ ' he was still smarting over, Ezio deserved to have been knocked down a notch or two. If anything, he regretted they hadn't come to this point sooner. Perhaps then all of this, from this morning's fight to the silent ride afterward, could have been avoided.

 

When Ezio didn't move nor picked up the conversation, Desmond went back to poking the fire until the logs lay in a neat pile under the chimney, then stood. He was going to eat something, and then he'd grab one of the blankets Ezio had so thoughtfully brought along, and get some much-needed sleep.

 

Ezio stepped into his path. “I owe you an apology.” He pursed his lips. “But you owe _me_ one, as well.”

 

Desmond lifted an eyebrow. “I do?”

 

“Yes,” Ezio said fiercely. “All my life, I've been looking for answers. Ever since my father died, ever since I took up the hidden blade, I've been searching for a meaning to all this.”

 

Warily, Desmond took a step back. Ezio and unexpected turns of conversation apparently went hand in hand. “'This'?”

 

“Everything – the Apple, the Templars. Why they call me the Prophet. No one ever had any answers for me, neither my uncle, nor the other Assassins. Not Leonardo. Not even the Templars I met and fought. Gazing into the Apple has only made things more complicated for me, not easier.” He frowned. “And then you drop into my lap, and I'm still no closer to understanding any of it.”

 

Remembering something Altaїr had once told him about the future and how he hadn't wanted to alter it too much, Desmond wondered if anything he could say would satisfy Ezio's curiosity. “I saw you in the Apple. I was never told why. Altaїr never mentioned your name. I don't _know_ why you're doing all the things you have been doing.”

 

“So you're not holding back?” Ezio looked at him in a way that was almost pleading. “You're not keeping things from me, because it might alter the course of my future?”

 

Desmond sighed. Ezio was asking the very thing he'd been hoping to avoid. Altaїr had married Maria, to avoid changing too much; what was _Desmond_ supposed to do, here? Everything he could tell Ezio could alter the course of history, but the fact was that there wasn't anything _to_ tell. Prior to meeting Ezio, Desmond had literally known nothing more about him than his name. Desmond wasn't even supposed to be here. If it hadn't been for Juno's meddling, he wouldn't be.

 

“That we met in the first place could already have altered it.” Desmond willed him to understand. “That's why I _must_ leave this time, as soon as possible. Don't you see? What if anything I tell you now somehow changes what you do later? What if instead of making things better, I'll make them _worse_?”

 

“Worse?”

 

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Desmond drew a face. “Okay. Try this on for size. What if I told you that in the future, Leonardo is a world-famous artist? That thousands of people, each year, travel across the earth just to see his paintings?”

 

Ezio's lips parted in silent surprise. His eyebrows started climbing toward his hairline.

 

Desmond continued, “What if I told _him_ that, and he suddenly decides he doesn't want to be famous? That he never wants to paint again, or never wants to invent something new? Look, the simple fact that he knows I'm from the future has probably given him ideas he's not supposed to have. Even where I come from, _when_ I come from, time travel is a fiction.”

 

Ezio nodded slowly. “I see.” He took a breath, releasing it slowly, and repeated quietly, “I see.”

 

“I wish I had answers for you. I really do.” Desmond swallowed: now came the hard part. “But even if I did -”

 

“You would not tell me,” Ezio finished for him.

 

Desmond inclined his head. “No.” He wondered if he just hadn't made a grave mistake. Maybe he already had revealed too much. “Promise me you'll never tell Leonardo what I just told you. The world is,” he sighed and finished lamely, “prettier with his paintings in it.”

 

“I won't,” Ezio said, gravely. “I promise.”

 

They fell silent.

 

Finally, Ezio said, “So you don't owe me an apology, after all.” His lips curled slightly. “Or maybe you do.” He rubbed at his chest. “You pack a mean punch. That hurt.”

 

Desmond rolled his eyes. “It was supposed to hurt. After what you said to me this morning, you deserved it.”

 

“I may have been out of line.” Ezio tilted his way this way and that. “But can you blame me?” He reached out, curling his fingers around Desmond's belt and tugging him closer. His entire demeanor was changing, and the mood between them changed with it. “Let me make it up to you, hm?”

 

But it didn't change enough. The idea of having sex in the house of a man who may or may not have been burned to a crisp, or was currently following the mad monk Savonarola, was off-putting. The entire town was off-putting, and honestly, swapping from hot to cold and back like that?

 

That was so Altaїr, all over again.

 

“I'm really tired.” Ezio leaned in for a kiss. Desmond leaned away from him, covered Ezio's mouth with his palm. “And I'm still pissed at you.” Ezio's licked his palm. He flicked a finger against the tip of Ezio's nose and pulled his hand away, drawing a face at the streak of saliva. “You have a one-track mind.”

 

“Always had, always will have.” Ezio relented, but didn't let go. “But, if you insist, I'll keep my hands to myself. For now.” And promptly, contrary to what he'd just said, he wrapped his arms around Desmond's waist, looking around the sad, little room. “I was serious, earlier, by the way. Will you be able to sleep, with me here?”

 

Desmond felt his bad mood begin to lighten, and figured it was a waste of effort to hold on to it. He wasn't yet at the point where he was going to forget what Ezio had said to him, this morning, but it was hard to resist the other man when he was like this.

 

“Let's find out,” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had two wonderful weeks of holidays, away from anything computer-related. /sarcasm 
> 
> Updates should come faster again, now. :)


	15. FIFTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take everything you know about Savonarola, and throw it out the window.

_**Chapter FIFTEEN** _

 

\- - -

**Sasso, Italy, April 12 th, 1492**

**\- - -**

 

The dull tolling of church bells cut through the thick silence. It was cool, the air smelling of cold smoke, wet earth; Desmond's eyes slid open. He lay on his side on the floor, his hip and shoulder vaguely aching from sleeping on hard ground, with only a blanket beneath. From his vantage point, the room looked larger. Still as joyless and bare as it had before, though. The lack of curtains in front of the single window showed a stretch of morning sky of the palest blue.

 

It took him a moment to recall where he was. Sasso. A tiny town, somewhere between Tuscany and Emilia-Romagna. Italy. Geese were gabbling, outside. Between that, the dull clop of hooves against grass: Menace and Ezio's nameless horse on the meadow behind the house.

 

The church bells rang four, five, six times, the sound fading back into silence like the cadence of a dirge. Desmond thought about the old priest, alone in his desecrated church with its slashed-up painting, felt a sting of sympathy. He remembered Masyaf, the long procession of white-clad Assassins standing with their heads bowed whenever a brother was brought home dead, through the gates of the ancient fortress. He had not witnessed it often, that silent, respectful mourning, but he'd felt back then as he did now, thoughtful and a little sad.

 

Different times. Different countries. Different lives, really, but some things remained the same.

 

An arm snaked around him, a gloved hand slipping over his hip onto his belly. He and Ezio lay back to chest, against the wall behind the door. Jokingly, Ezio had suggested they try cuddling up to overcome Desmond's problem of sleeping in close quarters, giving the whole thing the shock treatment; Desmond, recalling vividly the sleepless night before, had given in warily, convinced it was only going to compound his problem.

 

He'd slept like a baby, instead.

 

Now Ezio fingers were slowly working the shirt out of his waistband, warmed, supple leather against skin. Ezio's lips lazily explored the back of Desmond's neck. It was a pleasant, lulling sensation, overriding the lingering reservation that had brought things to a stop, the evening before. Desmond made a sleepy, appreciative sound to let Ezio know he was awake, and rolled onto his back.

 

“Hey,” he greeted softly.

 

Ezio leaned over him. He brushed his lips against Desmond's, as he had that first time. “Hey.” He drew idle circles around Desmond's bellybutton, glanced at the window, and cleared his throat. “We should be on our way.”

 

Desmond reached up, finding purchase at the back of Ezio's neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He wished there was more time – wished they had met under different circumstances. He wasn't in love with Ezio, but this felt like something he could get used to, regardless of their fight, regardless of Ezio's obvious approach to this being a pleasant way to pass the time, nothing more. It felt like something worth holding on to, in a world that had been an assembly of temporaries, for so long now.

 

Ezio pulled away first, though not without a sigh of regret. He patted Desmond's belly. “Come on. Before I forget why we're here.”

 

It was probably better to leave, before the wistfulness that had overtaken him took firmer root. This wasn't the first time a feeling like that had overcome Desmond; he truly hadn't wanted to leave Masyaf, there at the end. It had been his home. Only a sense of duty toward destiny had allowed him to let Altaїr send him forward in time.

 

He supposed Ezio was right, in a way. His intentions were noble. Some might even say his intentions were heroic; Desmond was going to save the world. Yet with no other options yet than to activate the shield device the Apple of Eden had shown him, he was going to die.

 

_What kind of goal is that?_

 

He went through the motions of getting up, of gathering their supplies, pondering that.

 

_You, and what army?_

 

Ezio had been right about that, too. Unless he managed to get the Apple of Eden to drop him right on top of the shield device, at the right time, he was going to need help. He needed to locate the shield, in the first place. Depending on where it was, he would probably need support to reach it. He needed to find people who knew about the history of Those Who Came Before; surely, Altaїr, Desmond and now Ezio – in a rather more limited fashion – weren't the only people on earth who knew about them.

 

Ezio watched him from the doorway. “Is everything all right?”

 

Part of Ezio's criticism had aimed at Desmond's habit of keeping things to himself. Thinking about it, Desmond supposed the man had a point; he did tend to work things through in his head, before he shared them with anyone, if he ever shared them. That, he guessed, was something he'd picked up from Altaїr, master of playing things close to his chest.

 

Stepping back and watching things from the outside, for a while, had allowed Desmond to stay abreast of the rather tumultuous upheavals in Masyaf, time and again. Granted, nine times out of ten Altaїr had waltzed right over Desmond's internal resolutions, or even Maria and Malik had, but that old safety mechanism was so deeply ingrained in Desmond now that he found it hard to behave differently.

 

“I'm just woolgathering.” Before Ezio could ask, Desmond added, “About what I'll do when I get home.”

 

Ezio nodded, but gave no response. Together, they left the house, leaving the door open, and retrieved the horses from the meadow behind it. Menace affectionately bumped his nose against Desmond's cheek as he saddled him. The geese in their corral were silent once more, watching them.

 

Desmond looked back over his shoulder as they rode down the street leading out of Sasso, northward. The little town lay silent and empty under a peacefully blue morning sky; from this point, Desmond couldn't see the market place and the stakes there, but he could see the church's bell tower, taller than the other houses.

 

He turned back around, focusing on the road ahead. As far as last impressions went, this had to be among the saddest he'd ever seen. Part of him wondered what would become of the old priest now; another part was glad he didn't have to stick around to find out.

 

He drew up to Ezio's side. “Did you find anything yesterday, at the mill?”

 

“Empty rooms. Nothing more.” Ezio pulled his hood up.

 

They were approaching the front of trees separating Sasso from the forest that covered the rest of the valley. Mist lingered above the grass and clung to the trunks, and it was cooler under the thick canopy of leaves. It felt like riding into a fairytale forest. Desmond had no attention to spare for the beauty of the scenery. He was watching the road, looking for signs of Sasso's inhabitants by the wayside. Here and there, it looked as though a great many pairs of feet had trampled over a patch of grass, or bent the small twigs of the bushes at the side of the road.

 

There was nothing that told him if the inhabitants of the town had gone this route, however. Those tracks could have been left by anyone. Desmond soon gave up, but not without throwing a surreptitious glance upward, into the crowns of the trees, now and then.

 

They had been going for an hour or so, keeping their pace at a light canter, when Ezio broke the silence. “I know you said you cannot tell me anything about the future. But can you tell me about the past?”

 

“Which parts of it?”

 

“I am curious about Altaїr.” Ezio glanced at him, lips curling. “The _real_ Altaїr. I realize that what I do know about him is rather limited.”

 

Desmond hesitated. He almost preferred it stayed that way, for several reasons. He could hardly claim an impartial view of Altaїr, for one; the things he could tell Ezio, the things that had mattered when Desmond stayed in Masyaf, would put a scratch in the heroic shine surrounding the figure of Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad in this time.

 

“Think of it as a way to pass the time,” Ezio coaxed, when Desmond remained quiet. “The next village is a three-hour-ride away, and I don't think we should put the horses through another race, like yesterday. We might miss clues, like that corpse in the tree.”

 

Desmond automatically looked up into the tops of the trees again. “Why do you want to know?”

 

Ezio gazed at the road before them, silent for a moment. “He built us up, and then he set us free. Desmond,” he looked over from under the seam of his hood, serious now, “do not think me so shallow as to pretend none of us are without fault, myself included. I am well aware Altaїr was a human being, not just the Mentor of the Levantine Order. But it started with him. All we are now, it began with him.”

 

It was startling, to think about it that way. Desmond mulled it over for a while, riding silently next to Ezio, thoughts turned inward. Perhaps he had been too close, and perhaps things had been too personal for him, to spend much time pondering the changes Altaїr had introduced to the order, when they didn't concern him directly. He could think of one occasion only, when they had – the days after Altaїr left for Cyprus, leaving Malik in charge of the order.

 

How things had been prior to that. . .Desmond's knowledge of that time was limited to what Altaїr and Malik had told him, and Altaїr especially had only parted with information when prodded. The order under Al Mualim had been a thing of the past, by the time Desmond arrived in Masyaf, most of the vital changes already underway.

 

Those changes were inextricably linked to Altaïr's personal history, the events leading up to him taking up the position of the Mentor.

 

Desmond remembered an afternoon at the top of the Mentor's Tower in Masyaf, crawling into Altaïr's lap after an earlier argument. Desmond had been surprised to learn that the man who'd pulled him back through time was quite different from the one who had gotten involved with the Apple of Eden for the first time, just a few years prior.

 

That man was dead now. They were all dead. Cyprus had fallen. Altaïr's Codex, parts of it, had been scattered, and the might of Masyaf was a meaningless phrase, in this time, this place. Yet some things had survived, echoing into the Assassin order of Italy, and perhaps into other orders, in other parts of the world.

 

Desmond felt his throat tighten. If only he had more time. If only he wasn't chasing a mad monk all over Italy. If only he didn't have a job to do, hundreds of years into the future. He could not imagine Masyaf gone, and the desire to go there and find out what had happened, to see for himself, was overwhelming.

 

Ezio steered his horse closer. He was frowning, and now reached over to touch Desmond's arm. “I did not mean to sadden you. Forgive me.”

 

“No, it's. . .” Desmond laughed a little, annoyed at himself. He felt like a crybaby, but he couldn't help it. For Ezio, Altaїr was a figure from the past, long dead. To Desmond, Masyaf and everything that had mattered to him there was _recent_ , a life reluctantly abandoned six days ago. “I lived there for 16 years. Now they're all dead. And it's hard for me to accept that.”

 

Ezio said calmly, “I know what that feels like.”

 

Desmond took a breath, striving for calm. Ezio would know all about that. He had, after all, seen his brothers and father executed right in front of him. Compared to that, Desmond had had it easy: Ezio's mother was a ghost, living a life of sad memories in a villa somewhere in Italy, mourning her lost loved ones; Ezio's sister had not been favored by much luck, either. A small, guilty part of Desmond was glad the chances of meeting either woman were slim.

 

He cleared his throat. “Let me warn you, I'm not much of a storyteller. Where do you want me to start?”

 

Ezio lifted one shoulder. “At the beginning? What do you know about his childhood?”

 

They had only briefly touched upon that, in Masyaf.

 

“He was born in 1165. I don't know a lot about his childhood, but I do know he was born to a Christian mother and an Assassin. Umar. That was his father's name.” Desmond looked over at Ezio and saw him listening intently. “Umar was executed when Altaїr was just a little boy, and. . .”

 

\- - -

 

Desmond talked until he was nearly hoarse. It felt like a trip down memory lane, Altaïr's memory lane.

 

They were still going at a light canter, following the gentle twists and turns of the road through the forest, no other soul in sight. The mist hanging between the trees vanished with the rising sun; the forest turned from something out of a fairytale into sun-dappled, friendly woodland scenery, fragrant with the scent of leaf and flower.

 

They found no more corpses, neither hanging from the trees nor littering the side of the road.

 

Aside from an occasional question, Ezio had been quietly listening. He offered no comment on Altaïr's past, not even the parts that had made Desmond protest in anger, surprise or doubt, back when _he_ had been the one listening, sitting there on Altaïr's lap in the Mentor's study.

 

It wasn't a sad tale, or even a very disturbing one. It was a tale of redemption, of a man slowly learning to think beyond himself and his needs, his _deeds_ ; it was a tale of the Holy Land and the Crusades, of war, of the Templars and how Al Mualim, Altaïr's predecessor, had attempted to gain power through the Apple of Eden.

 

Ultimately, it was a tale of changes. Necessary ones. Changes that had dictated everything that came afterward.

 

“. . .and then, sometime after that, he must have seen me in the Apple's visions.” Desmond reached for his water skin. He was parched. “And you know the rest.”

 

He drank thirstily, stealing a glance at Ezio. He'd expected more of a visible reaction from the other man, especially when they came to the parts when Altaїr, no two ways about it, acted like an asshole. He had _been_ an asshole, sanctimonious and convinced he could do no wrong, before he'd done everything wrong and dragged Malik right along with him, nearly to both their ruin. Frankly, even the Altaїr Desmond eventually met, changed for the better by some degrees, had retained many traces of that young, cocky Assassin sent out by Al Mualim, to retrieve the Apple of Eden.

 

“Well, now,” Ezio said finally, “that is quite a tale.”

 

“Disappointed?”

 

Ezio made a gesture as if he meant to chop something off. “No. Everyone has a past.”

 

Desmond eyed him. “But?”

 

“I hadn't expected him to be quite so human,” Ezio admitted. “That man you told me about is not the man I saw, reading the Codex.” He chuckled under his breath, looked over, and smiled. “But, thank you. For telling me.”

 

'Human' was the nicer way of putting it. Desmond had left out the _really_ interesting parts about his stay in Masyaf when he recounted his tale in Leonardo's workshop; not even at gunpoint was he going to share the details of how Maria had gotten involved.

 

He couldn't tell if Ezio was disappointed, after all.

 

“I regret I cannot tell you what ultimately happened in Masyaf,” Ezio said, a few minutes later. “I -” He trailed off, sitting up in the saddle, alert, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you -?”

 

Desmond had heard the faraway sound. “I hear it, too.” His nose twitched. “And I can smell it.”

 

They exchanged a glance. Ezio gave his horse the heels, urging it to a faster pace.

 

They were coming up on a gentle hill. Somewhere behind it, out of their line of sight, people were singing.

 

Smoke hung in the air, again.

 

By unspoken consent, just before they reached the peak of the hill, Ezio and Desmond slid out of the saddle and tied the horses to a tree at the side of the road. On foot, ducked low and using the trees as cover, they quickly ran up the rest of the way.

 

The sight that greeted them was arresting, and disturbing.

 

The road took a sharp dip down the other side of the hill, across a small stream, over a pair of tree trunks laid down as a makeshift bridge. On the northward side of the stream, the forest abruptly lightened, trees giving way to a small clearing, perhaps 200 hundred yards in width. An old, tiny, shabby-looking house, its roof straw-thatched and sagging, stood to the left side of the road.

 

“A hunter's lodge,” Ezio whispered. “No one lives there.”

 

No one had, until recently. Crouched at the foot of a tree and carefully leaning around the trunk, Desmond counted at least six groups of people camped in the meadow surrounding the hunter's lodge. They were sitting around campfires, men, women and children, old and young, huddled into blankets and cloaks. They were singing, voices raised in a low chant; Desmond strained to understand the words of the song but couldn't. They were too far away, still.

 

He cut a glance at Ezio. “Recognize anyone?”

 

“No.” He paused. “Maybe. A few here and there look familiar, but I can't be sure.” One tree over, Ezio was avidly watching the people. He pointed suddenly. “Look.”

 

Desmond saw it. “Savonarola?”

 

“Yes.”

 

At the far side of the clearing, almost at the edge of the forest, a larger group had assembled around a black-robed man seated atop a small cart, like a king presiding over his court. He stood out from the others, clothed in black like that, holding himself regal. Both arms raised, face turned toward the sky above, the man was speaking, and the people sitting at his feet were listening, enraptured.

 

Desmond's gaze immediately honed in on a lump of gold on the man's lap, nestled into the folds of the black robe.

 

Even from this distance, he recognized the Apple of Eden. It wasn't Altaïr's Apple of Eden – at least, Desmond assumed it wasn't; Ezio hadn't been able to tell him where, exactly, this Apple had come from, only that he'd taken it from the Templars – but the unnatural glow surrounding the sphere was unmistakable.

 

The man on the cart now lifted the Apple in one hand, raising it toward the sky. The people sitting on the ground around the cart lifted their arms, rocking back and forth, raising their voices higher. As if in answer, the other people around the campfires joined in.

 

It was a strange, dissonant song, off-key and haunting and in a foreign language. Probably Latin. Tearing his attention away from the Apple, Desmond focused on the people and felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Even the youngest ones, clinging to their parents, were opening their mouths and joining the chant. A baby, cradled in its mothers arms, swaddled in mere rags, was waving its plump arms in the air.

 

Desmond flicked his hand, releasing his hidden blade.

 

Ezio swiftly crawled over to him. His hand landed on Desmond's wrist, restraining him. “No.” He jerked his chin at the clearing, at the singing people. His eyes were narrowed. “Are you mad? There are children.”

 

“I'm not interested in the _children_.” Desmond shook himself loose.

 

Ezio glared at him. “We need to _plan_.”

 

“No,” Desmond said, “we don't.” What they needed to do was to put a stop to this, now.

 

Before Ezio could grab him again, he pushed to his feet and slid out from behind the tree. Ignoring Ezio's heated curse, he jogged down the hill, crossed the stream in two strides, and headed into the clearing. The people closest to him, seated around the campfires, ignored him as he approached, caught in their singing, beatific smiles on their faces, their eyes empty. A chill raked Desmond's spine at the sight; this was the Apple's doing.

 

He remembered Swami, wide-eyed and terrified, staring into the golden glow, unable to look away. He remembered Altaїr, cautioning him about the effects the Apple could have. This was like a mass hypnosis. Hurrying through the seated, rocking and swaying people, Desmond focused on his goal, pushing aside the unease that crept up on him.

 

His approach did not go entirely unnoticed.

 

Across the clearing, the black-robed man, the Apple of Eden in hand, pointed at him. His mouth moved, but whatever he was saying was lost in the din of the singing as the people now approached rapture, some of them shouting the words while others sang wordless, long, ululating cadences.

 

Desmond had one goal, and one goal only. He headed straight for the cart and the man standing in it, and made it as far as the middle of the clearing before someone blocked his path.

 

A little girl stepped into his way, moving jerkily. She was filthy, malnourished and pasty-skinned, her clothes in rags, her feet bare. She could have been 10, or 15 – it was hard to tell. Beneath a mop of tangled, matted hair, her eyes burned with intention.

 

Desmond stopped, eying her. She had no weapons.

 

She pointed at him, like Savonarola did. Her voice, sweet and young, rang out clear. “Stop.”

 

Desmond stared past her, at the man on the cart. Savonarola stood tall and imposing, as if in challenge. He was older than the monk he'd tried to rescue from the guards in Florence, his face lined and hard. His robe was similar to the one worn by Sasso's priest, more elaborate, black hemmed with white stitching, layered. Tucked behind a leather belt, he carried a wooden cross with a tiny Jesus figure.

 

Desmond looked at the Apple in Savonarola's hand. It was glowing; worse, it was making noise. A thin, hair-rising sound, like an out of tune string instrument, began to drown out the chanting people, becoming louder and louder.

 

Savonarola shifted, making a grand, mocking gesture of welcome. Then he pointed the Apple at Desmond, and lifted his other hand toward the sky, as if to call down judgment from above.

 

The last time anyone pointed that thing at him, it had been Altaїr, and Desmond had spent three days in a dazed stupor, puking his guts out. Altaїr had never pointed the Apple at him with malicious intent, however; there was no telling if he _was_ susceptible to the thrall Savonarola held the people here in.

 

He wasn't going to wait around to find out.

 

Desmond shoved the girl out of the way and sprinted forward. He had to dodge quickly, as more and more people stood and ambled into his path, moving jerkily like dolls on strings. A man, there, making a grab for him. A woman, here, dragging a vacant-eyed little boy, pointing an accusing finger at him.

 

_Almost there._

 

Thunder cracked across the clearing.

 

The people stopped chanting, as if cut off.

 

Savonarola jerked woodenly, teetered off balance atop the cart. The Apple of Eden fell from his grasp and plunked noisily against wood, still emitting that ear-busting noise. Flabbergasted, Desmond watched the mad monk stumble back, watched him already bend to retrieve his fallen treasure.

 

A renewed crack of thunder rang out. Savonarola fell backward out of the cart, booted feet for one, comical moment treading air.

 

Desmond turned around.

 

Ezio came striding across the clearing, an expression of annoyance plastered on his face. He was fiddling with his left bracer, and his wrist was smoking.

 

“ _That_ was your plan?” Desmond asked, incredulously. “Shooting him?”

 

Ezio walked up to him. Without warning, he smacked the back of Desmond's head, hard, “It was better than yours,” and strode on, toward the cart.

 

Around them, the people were waking up. They looked at each other, and then at their surroundings, with widening eyes. A faint murmur began, swelling quickly to noise as men, women and children began to talk all at once, asking where they were, why they were here. The little girl Desmond had shoved out of his way sat on the ground, crying, holding a skinned knee.

 

Within seconds, tension was thick, and there was still that awful sound coming from the Apple.

 

Desmond hurried to catch up with Ezio. They rounded the cart. One of the men who had previously sat at Savonarola's feet with a rapt expression was leaning into it, reaching for the Apple.

 

Ezio shouldered the man out of the way. He grabbed the Apple, teeth showing between his lips as the Piece of Eden suddenly gave off a loud noise, like a screech of protest, scaring the people still clustered around the cart into a fast retreat. Ezio clenched his eyes shut in concentration, and the noise dimmed.

 

With an audible 'snap', the Apple fell silent.

 

Desmond crouched at Savonarola's side. The monk lay on his back, limbs akimbo, dimming eyes fixed on the sky above. Two small holes in the front of his robe showed where Ezio's bullets had found their marks. The one in his left shoulder wasn't lethal, but blood was bubbling at the corners of Savonarola's mouth, bright red.

 

Desmond tugged down the monk's wide collar. A big chunk of the side of Savonarola's throat was missing, the torn wound edges showing cartilage and raw, red flesh.

 

“Nice shot,” Desmond commented. He'd been hoping to ask Savonarola questions, to find out _how_ the monk had known about the Apple of Eden and, more importantly, how to use it, but as he leaned over the prone man, Savonarola's eyes widened and lost focus.

 

“God,” he whispered, wetly and nearly unintelligibly, and died.

 

“Rest in pieces, bastard,” Ezio muttered. He was shoving the Apple into a pouch, glancing at the people.

 

Rising back to his feet, Desmond realized the people in the clearing were gathering around the cart. Children were crying, clinging to the hands of their wild-eyed parents. The tension tripled, and the muttering got louder, more hostile. Desmond caught sight of a young woman at the front of the crowd, bending to pick up a stone.

 

“Devilry!” an old man shouted. “You brought us here!”

 

Trying to explain to these people how, exactly, they had arrived at this clearing was a waste of time. Even if Desmond or Ezio could figure out which villages they came from, it wasn't going to appease the crowd that was now a hair's breadth from turning into an angry mob. The culprit, the man who could have shed some light on the situation lay dead at Desmond's feet; Savonarola had taken his reasons, his knowledge with him.

 

Desmond looked at Ezio.

 

“Run,” Ezio suggested.

 

They narrowly escaped. They were better rested than these people and hadn't spent the last god knew how many days following a mad monk in a religious trance while under the spell of an ancient artifact; still, by the time Desmond arrived back where they'd left the horses, blood was dripping down his jaw from a well-aimed stone. Ezio came crashing through the underbrush, dodging a clump of earth thrown by a burly man hot on his heels. The forest rang with the agitated shouts and the calls for blood from the crowd.

 

Desmond vaulted into the saddle, dug his heels into Menace's side, and bent low over the horse's neck. He looked back only once, to assure himself Ezio was right behind him, and then concentrated on holding on as they shot along the forest road, back in the direction they'd come from.

 

\- - -

**Prato, Italy, April 14 th, 1492**

**\- - -**

 

“You again.” Suspiciously, the guard at the city gate eyed them.

 

“Me again,” Ezio confirmed.

 

“Didn't you say you were going to Venice?”

 

Ezio shrugged. “We changed our minds. We like Prato so much, we decided to come back.”

 

The guard glowered at them, looking unsure how to react to the heavy sarcasm. Next to him, his fellow guard gave them a thorough once-over, looking equally as suspicious. The two men exchanged a glance; one shrugged, the other shrugged as well. Then the guard who'd greeted them, incidentally the same man they'd come across the first time they rode into the city of Prato, harrumphed. “Yes, well. Welcome to Prato. _Again_. Mind your own business and -”

 

“- be on your way as quickly as possible, yes, yes, we know.” Ezio clicked his tongue, urging his horse past the two guards. “Thank you ever so much for the warm welcome.”

 

In Desmond's mind, both guards had already died a thousand grizzly deaths, all involving the creative application of the halberds they carried and those stupid, feathery plumes sticking out the top of their helmets. He bit down on the acid commentary wanting to escape his pressed-together lips, and concentrated instead on not falling out of the saddle.

 

He wanted a bath. He wanted food; most of all, he never wanted to sit in a saddle, ever again. He was so tired he felt queasy, and his feet hurt. Not to mention his ass, and his back, and the muscles in his shoulders and arms were screaming protest with every little motion.

 

It was early afternoon, April 14th, 1492, in the city of Prato, and Desmond was going to _murder_ the next person who looked at him funny.

 

Even Ezio.

 

It was at Ezio's urging that they had made literally no stops on the way back from that cursed forest clearing. They'd ridden through Sasso as if the devil himself was on their heels, their pleasant canter and the conversational exchange of information a thing of the past. First, it had been to get rid of the angry mob undoubtedly trying to catch up with them; then, once past Sasso and on the way back toward the Apennines mountain range, Ezio had pointed out that once their ire ran out, those people were likely going to return home – home being, in all likelihood, the few settlements Desmond and Ezio had _not_ stopped at, the first time.

 

As a result, Desmond had gotten maybe two hours of sleep, over the last two days. They stopped only when they absolutely had to, even when the chance of anyone catching up with them had dwindled toward zero. When the horses tired, they'd gone onward on foot. Only once they'd made it through the first mountain pass, and then the second, and then finally arrived at the one near Mount Retaia, had Ezio slowed their pace.

 

By then, though, the city of Prato had lain before them at the foot of the mountain, looking like a little piece of paradise following their strenuous trek. Nevermind their unfriendly welcome the first time, or even this one: Desmond was looking forward to a bath and a bed with a longing that was approaching single-minded fanaticism.

 

Now, riding behind Ezio through Prato's streets, it was all he could think of. They had the Apple of Eden. It was lodged safely in a pouch hanging from Ezio's belt. They'd caught up with Savonarola, way before their original destination of Venice, and whether or not Desmond and Ezio had changed the course of history by murdering the monk in a forest clearing and stealing back an ancient artifact was currently beyond Desmond's capacity to give a damn about.

 

They arrived at the brothel.

 

The same stable boy who'd taken their horses that night, three days ago, took them again. Madam Rosetta, in a different though no less revealing dress, greeted them once more. She clapped her hands together over her head at the sight of the bedraggled state Ezio and Desmond were in, but wasted no time on asking questions.

 

“A bath, food, and a bed,” she said firmly, ushering them toward the stairs. “Come. _Now_. You boys look like you need them.”

 

Desmond could have kissed her. He wondered how much she really knew, about Ezio's chosen profession.

 

Flora met them at the top of the stairs and stifled a gasp at the sight of them. She fussed about Ezio and ignored Desmond completely. Even before they arrived at the door, she managed to rid Ezio of his cape and the first layer of clothes, nose crinkling at the smell of 'Man, After A Long Ride'.

 

Ezio smiled widely, eyes half-lidded as he basked in the attention. He handed the pouch with the Apple in it to Desmond, slung an arm around Flora's waist, and let her steer him toward another door.

 

Forlornly, watching Ezio and Flora vanish, Desmond stood in the hallway.

 

Madam Rosetta cocked her head. “Do I want to know what's in that pouch?”

 

“No.”

 

“It's not someone's head, is it?”

 

Desmond looked at the pouch. It was far too small to contain a head, unless it was a baby's head, and that was a line of thought he really didn't want to follow. “No.”

 

Madam Rosetta gave him a shrewd look. “You're not his cousin, are you?”

 

Desmond allowed himself a smile. He aimed for 'enigmatic', but it probably just came out 'tired'. “No.”

 

“Fine, then, oh man of mystery. Keep your secrets, if it pleases you.” Madam Rosetta's lips were curling into a smile. Desmond hadn't realized it the first time he met her, because he hadn't paid her much attention, but she was an attractive woman, plump and curvy, her face youthful despite the graying hairs at her temples. “Follow me. We have a second bathroom, on this floor.”

 

She led him to a door on the other end of the hallway. The bathroom was small, but tastefully furnished in light wood. The tub in the middle, large enough to hold two people, was the best sight Desmond had seen today.

 

“Get cleaned up.” Madam Rosetta pointed out the fireplace in a corner, and the iron kettle in front of it. Large buckets of water stood in a neat row against one wall, waiting to be heated. “I'll have the cook fix you something in the meantime. And leave your clothes there, on that stool. It's no good, putting them back on.”

 

“Thank you.” Desmond deposited the pouch on a table, toed off his boots, and pulled off his jacket. He took off his shirt, wrinkled his nose at the distinct odor of sweat rising from the fabric.

 

When he looked up, Madam Rosetta still stood in the doorway, and she was looking at him with slightly raised brows. Her expression conveyed appreciation of the sight.

 

He cleared his throat.

 

She gave him a wink and a smile. “Old habits,” she said, leaving him to wonder what old habits she was referring to, and stepped out, pulling the door shut.

 

Left to his own devices, Desmond wasted no time on heating the water. He dumped his clothes on the indicated footstool, collected a few cakes of soap, and lowered himself into the tub for a thorough scrubbing. Now and then, his gaze strayed to the Apple in its pouch, but he refrained from reaching for it, too tired to deal with that, now.

 

He soaked until his toes wrinkled.

 

Wrapped in a towel and feeling wonderfully, finally clean, Desmond padded into the room Ezio and he had stayed in before. Madam Rosetta was nowhere in sight, but there was yet another woman. She was closer to Flora's age than Madam Rosetta's, and wore an apron over a floor-length dress. Her light hair was wound into a neat bun, held at the back of her neck with a hairnet.

 

She glanced up when he entered and said, “Ah, Ezio, you -”, halted, looked again, and stuttered, “Oh! Excuse me, I thought you were someone else.”

 

“I get that a lot.” Desmond's attention zeroed in on the meal the woman – most likely the brothel cook – had laid out on the table. There was bread in various shapes, ham, cooked eggs; there were triangles of cheese and a long, thick sausage, the dried, spicy kind called _salami_ Desmond had tried first in Florence and found out he liked. Small, covered bowls gave off an appetizing scent. There was even half a round, layered cake, topped with slices of fruit. Desmond beamed at the woman. “You're my favorite person in the world, right now.”

 

She laughed. “I get _that_ a lot.” She made an inviting gesture, gave him another friendly smile, and went to the door. “Call for seconds, if you need them.”

 

Desmond wouldn't have to, but Ezio might, if he didn't make an appearance soon. He was taking rather long to get cleaned up. Then Desmond remembered who was in the bathroom with Ezio, and he spent half a minute trying to figure out if that bothered him or not, before he gave up. Ezio's approach to who he slept with seemed to be of the 'here and now' kind; Desmond shrugged inwardly, flung the pouch and his hidden blade onto the bed, and descended upon the food.

 

He ate, listening for sounds from outside. Twice, someone walked by the door; no one knocked, no one entered, so he went back to eating. The covered bowls contained hot, spicy broth with a layer of thick noodles floating at the top, sprinkled with chopped vegetables and small pieces of meat. Curling up in the comfortable chair, Desmond slurped the soup, enjoying the sensation of warmth spreading through his limbs.

 

With the warmth came fatigue, leaden and inescapable, though without the sense of urgency that had driven them onward. The bed looked soft and inviting, despite the leather pouch making a dent in the blankets. Sooner rather than later, Desmond would have to sit down and spend some quality time with the Apple of Eden, but he decided it could wait a while longer.

 

_Quite_ a while longer, considering how his eyelids were drooping as he nibbled on a slice of cake, and the next thing Desmond knew was the soft clap of the door and the patter of naked feet against carpet.

 

He blinked, lifted his head. He'd fallen asleep in the chair.

 

Ezio was crossing the room, dressed in the most garishly colored robe Desmond had ever seen. He was alone, looking as though he'd just come out of the tub, hair still dripping water.

 

Ezio looked at the rather severely diminished contents of the table. “I see you started without me.”

 

Desmond shifted to look at the window. The sun hung low over Prato's rooftops, in only a slightly different position than when he'd last seen it. He couldn't have slept for more than half an hour, at the most. Reaching up to rub his eyes, annoyed to discover he'd ended up with a crick in his neck, he startled: Ezio had come over to the chair and was sliding one arm under Desmond's knees, the other around his back. With a grunt of strain, Ezio lifted him out of the chair, bridal-style.

 

Desmond uttered a halfhearted protest. “I'm not a girl.”

 

“You're in my way. There is only one chair.” Ezio carried him to the bed and dumped him on it rather unceremoniously, then made a show of wiping his brow. His smile was warm, though, affectionate. He patted Desmond's thigh. “Go to sleep.”

 

The Apple poked Desmond in the belly, when he rolled over. He shoved it over the edge of the bed, punched a pillow into shape, and drifted off within seconds, to the sounds of Ezio sitting down at the table.

 

\- - -

 

Birdsong woke him, chirpy and insistent. It didn't seem worth the trouble of getting out of bed, to locate the little feathery sucker and strangle it. Desmond rolled over and came up against an immovable object. A faint mutter of protest, trailing off into fainter mumbles, roused him enough to open his eyes. Ezio slept on, unperturbed; he lay on his back, his profile outlined sharply against the sunlight flooding the room.

 

Desmond curled up against him, nestled his cheek against Ezio's chest. He felt well-rested, the aches of that last, strenuous leg of their journey already receding to the back of his mind. Aimlessly, he let his palm wander across warm skin. Unlike Altaїr, Ezio's body bore scars of encounters with enemies gone wrong; Desmond traced them, by now knowing where they were located and what had caused some of them.

 

He was in the mood for sex, half-hard against Ezio's thigh, but loathed to wake the other man. Peaceful sleep, Desmond imagined, wasn't something easily come by for Ezio.

 

“Mm,” came the sleepy rumble from above. “Go on.”

 

. . .but if Ezio was awake, there was no reason to stop, was there?

 

He rubbed his cheek against Ezio's chest and stroked down, over Ezio's ridged belly, the curve of a hip, under the blanket. Ezio's cock firmed in the loose curl of Desmond's fingers, and when he stroked back the foreskin and rolled his thumb against the head, Ezio groaned softly.

 

Desmond shifted until he lay with his cheek against Ezio's belly, sideways across the bed. For a while, he watched the blanket rise and fall, lazily jacking him off, and enjoyed the way Ezio's muscles tensed and loosened, the subtle upward thrusts of his hips. Ezio's hand settled on his head, light as a feather.

 

It wasn't enough.

 

Desmond pushed back the blanket. He leaned up and watched his hand move up and down Ezio's cock, the shaft swelling; watched how the head appeared and disappeared in its sheath of skin, each time peeking out a little moister. He kissed the shaft, licked at the head; it tasted musky, and a little salty, with a hint of bitterness. Not too bad. Not too great, either. Carefully, he took the head of Ezio's cock into his mouth and swirled his tongue against it.

 

“Oh,” Ezio said, faintly. His fingers moved against Desmond's scalp, a motion brought on by reflex more than intent. Then he said, “Turn around. I want to watch.” His thumb traced the shell of Desmond's ear, a touch so light it tickled. “Let me see your face.”

 

Obliging him, Desmond shifted onto his other elbow, arranging himself comfortably across Ezio's thighs. He glanced up once, to see Ezio watch him intently, lips parted in anticipation, and felt a pang of nerves. He'd never done this before. He'd never _wanted_ to do this before.

 

But now he'd started it, and he didn't want to stop.

 

He slid his mouth down over Ezio's cock, covered the rest of the shaft with his hand. He moved slowly, testing until he found a rhythm and angle that suited him. The tip of Ezio's cock tickled the roof of his mouth. When Desmond pressed his tongue against the shaft and sucked lightly, Ezio cursed and tossed his head on the pillow, the muscles in his thighs flexing against Desmond's weight.

 

It was intoxicating, to be the one causing these reactions. Desmond shifted until he could rub his own cock against the mattress, to relieve the need for stimulation. He wanted Ezio's hands on him, but Ezio was grabbing handfuls of the blanket, rolling his hips up against Desmond's grip, his mouth, and that was just as good. Ezio's balls were firming, drawing closer to his body in their soft, loose sac, and when bitterer wetness trickled over his tongue, Desmond overrode the reaction of wanting to pull away. He tightened his grip, took as much of Ezio's cock into his mouth as he could, and swallowed.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Ezio cursed, tersely, _heatedly_.

 

Desmond kept swallowing until Ezio had nothing left to give him, then pulled away slowly, working his jaw from side to side. That taste was nothing to write home about, but the sight of Ezio relaxing into a puddle of bliss was worth it.

 

Ezio released a long, deep breath. He was grinning at the ceiling. “Good morning.”

 

Desmond didn't answer. He nuzzled Ezio's thigh, feeling restless. The mattress was no substitute for a warm body, so he shifted again, sprawling over Ezio's prone form, kissing and licking every bit of skin within reach, scraped his teeth over a pert nipple. It was a little strange, to rub against the man when Ezio was all but motionless under him, but then Ezio's arms wound around Desmond and pulled him up higher. They ended up face to face, lips locked in a sloppy kiss. Ezio wormed a hand between their bodies, taking Desmond's cock in a firm grip. A few thrusts into the snug warmth of Ezio's hand were enough to bring him over.

 

He moved just enough to the side so he didn't end up squashing Ezio, threw a leg over him, and relaxed into the afterglow.

 

They lay quietly for a while, silent.

 

Then Ezio rolled onto his side, facing Desmond. “What will you do if you cannot get the Apple to send you back?”

 

Desmond groaned and buried his face into the pillow. He'd successfully avoided thinking about that, up to now. “Way to ruin the mood,” he complained. “You suck at pillow talk.”

 

“It bears thinking about,” Ezio said. He dragged his palm down Desmond's side, over his hip, down his leg.

 

“I guess I'll be stuck here.” Opening his eyes to slits, Desmond glared up. “I'll grow old and die. Maybe I'll die in a fight.”

 

Ezio was quiet for a moment. “Would that truly be so terrible?”

 

“Dying?”

 

“No. Staying here.”

 

It wasn't like the thought hadn't crossed Desmond's mind, before. It wasn't like he _hadn't_ seriously considered pleading with Altaїr to let him stay, in Masyaf.

 

It wasn't like Florence, Italy, this time, weren't fascinating, offering a thousand things Desmond had yet to discover. It was a completely different world than the one he'd come from, different than the one he planned on returning to. There were Assassins, here, and although the order of Italy was infinitely smaller than the Levantine one, he knew they would take him in. Eventually. After he'd proven himself, probably, shown he was worth it.

 

He thought about it, imagined it: exploring Italy, then Europe, maybe with Ezio at his side. Traveling to Syria, to Masyaf, to find out if the Levantine order was truly gone. Fighting the Templars, helping Ezio gain revenge for the deaths of his father and brothers.

 

He _could_ stay. Who was going to judge him, if he did? Only Ezio and Leonardo knew where Desmond had come from and where he needed to go. No one was going to blame him if, a few hundred years down the road, the sun turned into a super-toaster and crisped the planet.

 

And a few billion people along with it.

 

“I can't,” Desmond said.

 

Ezio's thumb drew small circles against his ankle. Whether or not he was disappointed with Desmond's answer was hard to tell. He was smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, and then Ezio patted Desmond's calf and sat up, disentangling himself. “We should be on our way, then.”

 

\- - -

 

The cook, who belatedly introduced herself as Anna, handed Desmond a wrapped, small parcel, when he and Ezio came down the stairs to say farewell to Madam Rosetta.

 

“Something for the road,” Anna said, and winked. “It is not very often that the men who come here appreciate my cooking quite the way you did.”

 

Desmond thanked her. As soon as she was gone, he unwrapped his gift just enough to discover a cake, carefully placed in a wooden bowl. Slices of almonds were arranged in a symmetrical pattern over a dark marmalade topping. After the hefty breakfast served to them this morning, the sight was still enough to make Desmond's mouth water; confections, even cakes, had not been on the menu often, in Masyaf.

 

He left the re-wrapped cake at the bottom of the stairs and joined Ezio in the parlor. Madam Rosetta, seated on an ornate, plush chair, was taking dainty sips from a tiny porcelain cup giving off fragrant steam. She lit up at the sight of Desmond entering, and waved him closer.

 

“Dear Ezio here tells me you'll soon return to your home.” Her eyes twinkled above the rim of the cup; after last night's confession that he wasn't Ezio's 'cousin', she seemed amused by the ongoing charade. “A faraway country, I imagine?”

 

Desmond slanted a glance at Ezio, but the man only grinned at him. “Very far away.”

 

“Well then, I hope you'll keep us in good memory.” Setting the cup down, Madam Rosetta rose and held her arms open. “And should your path lead you to Italy again, be sure to drop in for a visit.”

 

It was nothing like the good-byes he'd received in Masyaf, from Malik and Maria, but Desmond still felt a little misty-eyed when he followed Ezio out of the brothel. Why couldn't the people he met be assholes; it would make parting from them easier.

 

Ezio eyed the wrapped parcel in Desmond's hand curiously, while they waited for the stable boy to bring out the horses. “What's that?”

 

“Cake. The cook loves me.”

 

Ezio lifted an eyebrow, chuckled, but made no other comment. Following their 'pillow talk' this morning, he had been in a strange mood since; not a bad mood, just a strange one. Lighthearted, prone to joking. Touchy-feely again, but Desmond didn't mind that anymore.

 

He would miss Ezio, too.

 

The same guard who'd been on duty the two times Ezio and Desmond rode into the city of Prato, was on duty again when they left. This time, the man only rolled his eyes and waved them through. It was shaping up to be a pleasant day, warm, with a mild breeze blowing in their backs as they set out toward Florence.

 

An hour into the ride, Ezio held out the pouch containing the Apple of Eden. “Here. Give me that cake.” He nodded at the parcel Desmond had been balancing on the pommel of his saddle with one hand, for lack of another place to put it. “See if you can make that thing work.”

 

Desmond looked around. The area was vaguely familiar, for all that he'd ridden through it once. Trees on both sides of the road, meadows, the occasional twinkle of sunlight over a stream of water. They had a ways to go, still, before they reached even the outskirts of Florence, but this area was hardly off the map. “Here?”

 

“Why not?” Ezio jiggled the pouch. “I am curious to see what you can do with it.”

 

Reluctantly, Desmond exchanged cake for pouch. “I told you before that the Apple never worked for me. We talked about it this morning.”

 

“I know.”

 

He pointed out the obvious. “What if it suddenly does? You've seen the light show this thing can produce.”

 

Ezio just looked at him. “We're hours away from Florence. Why so reluctant? Or are you afraid to touch it?”

 

Rankled, Desmond stared at the pouch. He wasn't afraid. It was only when _other people_ pointed it at him, that weird stuff began to happen. Currently, that wasn't Desmond's main concern: Ezio was outright ignoring the fact that anyone could see them, riding in the open like this.

 

“If someone sees us, I'll let you handle it. Alone.” Yanking the drawstrings of the pouch open, Desmond reached inside. The Apple felt cool against his fingertips. He pulled it out and held it up, watching the sunlight glint off the surface. “There. Are you happy. . .”

 

Desmond trailed off. He took a closer look. This _wasn't_ Altaïr's Apple of Eden.

 

He turned it around, looked at it from a different angle. He'd seen Altaïr's Apple often enough. He had been the one to watch over it for two and a half years, after all. Back then, Desmond had thought the markings on it, if they weren't for purely decorative purposes, were a the script of a language, perhaps the letters from the alphabet used by Those Who Came Before – if they'd even used an alphabet.

 

This Apple was covered in short lines, and there were fewer grooves in it.

 

Other than that, it was remarkably dead in Desmond's palm.

 

How had Altaїr gotten it to work? How had Savonarola, or Ezio, for that matter? How was it that the thing apparently randomly activated for some, while remaining lifeless for others? Turning the Apple this way and that, Desmond ignored the questioning noises Ezio was making, and concentrated.

 

_Work. C'mon. **Work**. Make me puke my guts out, again. _

 

Nothing happened. Not even the hint of a glow. Not a single sound came from the Apple, no matter how Desmond held it, or how hard he concentrated on it.

 

He slipped the Apple back into the pouch, tied the drawstrings, and hung it from the pommel of his saddle. Ezio was looking at him with a frown deeply engraved between his eyebrows, a hint of disappointment; Desmond didn't have to be able to read minds to know what he was thinking. If he didn't get the Apple to work, he _was_ stuck here.

 

_What do I have to do?_ he wondered. _What do I have to sacrifice?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _was_ going to write out that entire episode of them going to Venice and tracking down Savonarola there and returning, triumphant, with the Apple...
> 
> Nah. 
> 
> :P

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Afternoon (Illustration for "Cipher")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827787) by [vailkagami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vailkagami/pseuds/vailkagami)




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